The Long Road Home
by Sylphic
Summary: Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane separately join Daenarys as her army marches north to the Wall - but Stannis stands in their way. Can they unite against a common enemy? How will they, and Westeros as a whole, ever survive the coming storm? Futurefic/AU
1. Sandor

NOTES: Characters and everything else from A Song of Ice & Fire belong to the brilliant George RR Martin. I do hope he doesn't hate me now. I have not, will not, nor will ever profit from this story in any way (other than an odd sense of accomplishment!).

Please be aware that this story contains a random smattering of SPOILERS from the first 4 books. They aren't prominantly flagged, but they're in here all the same. If you haven't finished reading the published canon, you may want to turn back now. This story takes place in the time frame roughly following A Dance With Dragons (though having not read that book yet, its degree of plausibility may change in the future). This story will also contain the death of canon characters in later chapters- fair warning now, as I know this is something that bothers a lot of readers and I'd hate to ruin anyone's day.

This is my first fic in close to 10 years, so please go easy on me. Rating may increase with later chapters. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Snowflakes fell in slow flurries, drifting lazily across the white landscape. Those with the misfortune to land on the road were trod into half-frozen mud beneath a relentless column of boots the instant they touched the ground.<p>

Sandor Clegane, or Creep as those who marched with him had taken to calling him, kept his eyes on the ground in front of them. Endless miles of mud had passed beneath their boots since leaving the Riverlands, and a great many more remained before they would reach their destination.

They were making for Stannis, and the Wall.

As always, he kept the hood of his cloak pulled forward over his face, concealing the hideous burns that marred one side from scalp to throat. Anonymity was his friend. Creep was just one of thousands in boiled leather and battered mail, breath pluming white in the cold air as they marched. He'd been with the same unit for four months and not a man there had seen what he looked like. None of them really cared to, and he was perfectly content to keep it that way. It helped avoid questions.

Walking had taken some getting used to, but there'd been little choice. Stranger had been shot out from under him the day the abbey burned. The gallant beast had made it close to five miles despite looking more like a hedgehog than a horse for all the quarrels protruding from his neck and flanks. It'd been enough.

As the miles passed and the air grew colder around them, the Elder Brother's final words kept him company.

_Dragons have returned to Westeros- and with them, justice. You'll see._

Dragons had returned, in fact, and he'd traveled many miles south to seek them out in the Stormlands. But justice? Clegane had little enough experience with that to doubt such a thing even existed.

Where was justice the day they'd found his little sister face-down in the creek?

Where was justice when he screamed and burned?

When the women of King's Landing cried and thrashed in the arms of their rapers, and children were trampled in the street?

When Ned Stark's blood soaked the steps at the Great Sept of Baelor?

Or the day he'd left her to the lions, slinking away like a cowardly dog with his tail between his legs?

Where was justice the day the peaceful monks of the Quiet Isle were put to the sword?

The Dragon Queen had landed in Dorne a year earlier, with a hundred ships at her back and three great beasts in the skies overhead. The Dornish had risen for her, and the march north had been an easy one. King's Landing opened its gates without a fight by command of the High Septon, but the Queen did not dally there long.

As they marched one of her 'children' would become visible from time to time, slicing through the clouds on great leathery wings. More often than not it was the green, lithe and serpentine as it cut through the cold air like a brilliantly scaled emerald blade. It seemed even the rawest of recruits had grandiose tales to tell about the dragons. When the men gathered around the fires after the evening's rations had been consumed, he kept to himself and left them to their mindless chatter.

That's what had earned him the nickname. 'Oi, don't you ever get tired of creepin' around in the dark by your lonesome? Join us for a drink, mate!' There'd been no real malice in their eyes, just cool curiosity. He'd shaken his head and stalked off, and had been Creep ever since. As he deserved no better, it suited him fine.

He was far more interested in the talk that went on around the pavilions than at the campfires of the men at arms, but getting near enough to hear much of use had proven difficult. The great lords that had taken up with Daenarys had no shortage of personal guards and knights in their service who did not take kindly to common soldiers.

One night along the Green Fork a curious rumor had begun to circulate through the camp that a Wolf had joined their march. 'The Queen's new pet,' a few of the men said. It was enough to pique his interest, but more information had not been forthcoming – despite a fortnight's relentless investigation.

Nightly he made his rounds, skirting along the line of lordly pavilions that made up the center of the army's camp every time they stopped. Colorful banners snapped in the cold air: the spear and sun of Dorne was most prevalent, but countless others were also in attendance. The flaming tower, the grapes of the Arbor, the gold and green rose of Highgarden, the boar of Crakehall and red cock of House Swyft. Naturally, the royal pavilion was bedecked in black and red and the three headed dragon of the Targaryens was much in fashion around the camp as a whole.

He noted that the silver eagle of Seagard and the merman of White Harbor were the newest additions, and likely not the last. The Queen had been gaining support steadily as her march progressed and word of their strength spread. But the banner he sought was not to be found, and he kept his distance. Bumping into a knight that recognized him could easily mean his head on a spike, and he knew it. A price he was unwilling to pay for what was likely little more than scurrilous camp rumor.

Such rumors were common. Some said the White Walkers had already broached the Wall. Others whispered that Stannis had awoken a dragon of his own, a great dreadful creature from nightmare, and he was luring the Queen into a trap. One man in their formation swore he'd heard that Stannis was raising an army of the dead and would be marching south to crown himself on a throne of bones.

Glimpses of the various lords and ladies that made up the Queen's following were few and far between. The men-at-arms in the outlying camps, and Creep with them, were up before dawn, fed and forming columns long before those of high birth even stirred from their beds.

Occasionally they'd catch a glimpse of Lord Yronwood, when the preening old man could be bothered to escort the column that flew his banner. More often than not he hung back with the other Dornish nobles and knights.

Though he'd never even seen Dorne, Sandor figured their banner was as good as any. It seemed safer to march with strangers from the south than any of the western regiments, where he'd more likely be recognized. He wasn't alone in that, and most of the regiments were a pretty motley mixture of men-at-arms, sellswords and freed slaves that had accompanied the Queen across the narrow sea. It was easy to blend in.

The miles along the Green Fork came and went, and nothing more was heard of the Wolf in their midst. Before long he figured it must have been a dream and dismissed the idea completely.

They'd seen their first action at the Twins, though not a drop of blood had been spilled by the Queen's army. Her children had seen to that. Watching the three beasts in action as they'd set the towers alight and scattered the Frey's meager defenses had been a terrible sight.

They said old Lord Walder died of fright when the creatures came down on them in the night, and Sandor believed it. They'd lingered at the Twins for nearly a month, and Queen Daenarys had left one of his grandchildren in command of there after they departed. Which one, he could not say. Probably another Walder Frey. It made little difference.

A week earlier they'd passed Moat Cailin without a fight. The formidable castle had been abandoned by the Ironborn for quite some time, by the look of things. Foragers had scoured the surrounding area and a token force was left to hold it, though none could say when they'd be coming back this way – if at all.

The Kingsroad was a rough thing this far north, narrow and winding. Patrols of outriders had been dispatched ahead of the main column, but signs of Stannis and his own army had been virtually non-existent. They were in Cerwyn lands now, and nearing Winterfell. What little remained of it, at any rate. Creep had no more opinion of Winterfell than any other place they'd be passing on this journey, but the thought filled Sandor Clegane with quiet dread.

When the march halted for the day on the edge of the Barrowlands and the men broke ranks to set up camp, young Dart sought him out, as always.

'Ay, Creep! You hear? Word is Ser Ellis an' 'is come back early. We jus' might be seein' Lor' Stannis affore we reach the Wall after all!'

Dart was no more Dornish than he was. He was from King's Landing, which was, in many ways, far worse. Sandor had made every effort to discourage the boy, from ignoring him to being outright rude, but Dart was equal parts stupid, oblivious and above all else, hopelessly friendly. Eventually he decided it best to just put up with him.

'Stannis.' Creep grunted.

'Sure 'nough! Come far south as Castle Cerwyn, they sayin'. Mayhaps we'll see 'em on the morrow. Think she'll put the beasts on 'em?'

Dart ran a hand through his dirty brown hair, which fell over his forehead and ears in a messy tangle. He was young, probably not more than fifteen, but the filth of the road that smudged his face and simple leather jerkin made him look far older.

Creep grunted again, shrugging off his pack and tossing it against the base of the nearest tree. He'd often wondered if Stannis would have the balls to face them, but supposed there was little choice. Better to march south and take his chances on a field of his own choosing than be trapped with his back to the Wall.

'Don't 'spose it's true, what Will said, do you? 'Bout the dead men and all that …'

Sandor sank down with his back to the trunk and sighed, glad to take the weight off his feet. More than once after his flight he'd considered stealing a horse to replace Stranger, but the opportunity never presented itself. After a while he'd started to see walking as yet another penance. His leg had healed well and rarely gave him trouble any more, but his feet were another matter. Painfully he flexed his toes and felt the bones pop wearily. At that moment he would have liked nothing more than to take his boots off, but it was far too cold for that.

After a moment Dart dropped his own pack and sank to the ground in a similar fashion, his face thoughtful.

'Guess we'll know in the mornin', eh?'

Sandor said nothing, pulling a hunk of black bread from his bag and tearing a piece with his teeth. He tossed a second piece to Dart, who snatched it from the air gratefully. It was stale and mealy, but better than nothing.

The two men ate in silence as fires were lit and the camp formed around them.


	2. Sansa

Sansa retreated steadily, deflecting blows as she went. The sound of clanging steel echoed around the small clearing as the two women sparred in rough leather and fur tunics – Sansa awkward and stumbling and the lady knight, as large and muscular as any man, persistent and forceful in her advance. Her sword arm ached terribly, but Brienne wasn't about to let her off easy. Every lesson had been brutal, and her arms, shoulders and torso were dotted with enough bruised patches to make a jungle cat jealous.

She took no joy in it, as her sister Arya once had. Swordplay was a means to an end and nothing more. On any given day she could gain that tiny bit of quickness, that one flick of the sword woven into her muscle memory that may save her life, Brienne had told her, so she'd best learn what she could in the time they had.

Most days it felt as if she had no concept of time anymore. How long had it been since she left Winterfell? How many days since she'd seen her father die? Since she'd lost her brothers, her sister, her mother? A lifetime ago, and yesterday. Sometimes she almost thought she heard her siblings laughter in the sound of the swords meeting, mocking her clumsiness.

At least it was Sansa that looked back at her through the mirror each night, and not Alayne. Sansa Stark, the sole surviving Stark of Winterfell - a little taller, a little wiser, and much more bruised.

She owed that to Brienne, and, oddly enough, the Burned Men.

Her flight from the Vale six months earlier had already started to fade to a dreamlike quality. The bravery and determination of the Maid of Tarth impressed her, even now. She still found it difficult to fathom that a woman could be so strong and self-reliant in a world like theirs, but such things seemed to be becoming more common with the Dragon Queen on the rise. The cost of their flight had been Brienne's beautiful sword of Valyrian steel, and her word as Sansa Lannister – dutiful and loving wife of the Halfman. The Vale of Arryn was in chaos, even now. They'd been long gone before the worst of it, ensconced at Seagard, but they'd heard tales. Lord Mallister had been most kind and generous in his hospitality, a debt she would be long in repaying.

Even now the wheels were turning once more to ensnare her. Tyrion had granted her request for an annulment, and her betrothal to Jason Mallister was soon to be announced to the Queen's court. It was something she kept pushed to the farthest corner of her mind, whenever possible. The Mallisters were very gentle with her, and Jason was actually quite handsome – but Sansa resented them all the same. Too long she'd been a puppet for men, callously eyed for her claim.

Even the Queen saw Sansa as a tool. A pawn to be moved across the board - and soon, she knew, towards Stannis. Daenarys was so very different from Cersei in many ways, a fact she was certainly grateful for, but the game and its rules remained the same. Each piece had its uses and its value, to be advanced, withdrawn and manipulated as the political tides ebbed and flowed. Littlefinger had opened her eyes to the game, and once opened - they could not be closed again.

Thoughts of chivalry, divine justice and courtly love were luxuries she could no longer afford in her waking hours. Songs were for children and doomed men. She hadn't sang since the night of the Blackwater. Since he'd come to her room. Since he'd left her.

The pommel of the sword rolled suddenly and sprang from her fingertips, spinning from her grasp and landing on the half-frozen floor of the clearing with a resounding thump. Sansa met Brienne's gaze meekly as the older woman frowned, her lips clenched in a firm line.

'You lose focus, Lady Sansa. Your reflexes have improved tenfold, but if your mind is not sharp you'll soon see that your opponent's blade is.'

'Forgive me, Brienne … I'm afraid tomorrow is much on my mind. I won't even HAVE a sword. Perhaps we should just leave practice be for the day. If I should make it back to camp, you can press me twice as hard tomorrow, I promise.'

Brienne's frown deepened, her brow knitting with concern.

'There's still time to stop it, Lady Sansa. The Queen should not have asked this of you. Lord Tyrion or Prince Quentyn could just as easily…'

'No, they couldn't. Lord Stannis has always mistrusted Dorne, and he would never treat with a Lannister – but he respected my father, and Lords Umber and Reed are close in his counsel. They will listen to Sansa Stark. He will listen. He must.'

Sansa laid a reassuring hand on her friend's arm as Brienne's shoulders drooped with resignation.

'They should at least allow you an escort.'

Now Sansa frowned, shaking her head.

'Alone or with twenty swords at my back – if they mean me harm, it will be done either way. By approaching unarmed and under banner of parlay, Stannis will not dare. He's many things, but there is honor in him.'

'In Stannis, perhaps. In a thousand frightened crossbowmen with half-frozen fingers? ... I still do not like it. Not one bit.'

Sansa retrieved her practice sword from the dirt and pulled forward the hood of her heavy cloak, concealing her face and tangle of red hair as the pair made their way back to camp. Brienne's bulk and sour expression were generally enough to earn them a wide berth as they wound their way to the large cluster of bannered tents at the center of the encampment, and today was no exception. Her own pavilion, shared with Brienne, was more modest than many clustered there – a gift from Lord Mallister, thick canvas in blue and gray, the colors of Seagard. Despite its simple appearance, the tent was comfortably outfitted.

They arrived to the laughter of Podrick and Lucilla, Brienne's squire and Sansa's maid, as the pair fussed over setting their small table for dinner. At the sight of their mistresses, Pod turned a florid shade of red and Lucilla suppressed a smirk, dipping a curtsy before pouring them each a goblet of cool water.

'Ser-, my Lady! Supper … supper will be ready in a moment. Just… ah… yes!' Podrick shuffled his feet slightly and busied himself rearranging a perfectly fine place setting.

The boy really was quite sweet. Sansa wondered if he'd ever stop tripping over his tongue.

'Thank you, Pod.' Brienne smiled warmly.

'Once you've had your own supper, please see that Lady Sansa's things are laid out for tomorrow morning. I expect we'll be getting an early start, and it wouldn't do to keep the Queen waiting.'

'Nice and shiny, Pod. Bright as a mirror! It may not be a gown, but I must look my best for Lord Stannis.'

Sansa smiled sweetly and was rewarded with a fresh wave of scarlet creeping up Podrick's neck.

'Of course, Ser- my Lady! It will be perfect, I p-promise…'

She did not doubt it. Podrick was dutiful and thorough – the perfect squire, despite his self-effacing attitude. Brienne had been pleasantly surprised when he'd turned down the opportunity to return to Tyrion's service, preferring to stay with her.

Their dinner was simple, as they all had been during the march. Supplies were difficult to come by with winter falling on Westeros, and while the pledged lords had each contributed wagons full of supplies to the Queen's effort, foraging was meager. Sansa prodded the stewed mutton and tubers on her plate and wistfully recalled the fare at Seagard – the last fine meal she'd had. Normally the memory would have made her mouth water, but tonight even the finest feast would have turned to ash in her mouth. While she made every effort to hide her nervousness from Brienne, a persistent flutter of nerves shivered through her stomach and would not be still.

Sansa was painfully aware of her shortcomings. Robb would not have flinched from the task before her, nor Arya. They'd never been afraid of anything. Even Bran and Rickon had been made of far sterner stuff than she was. Sansa was no warrior – not in truth. Though she'd learned over time to use her own strengths of guile and courtesy to her advantage, and Brienne had been tireless in trying to impress some knowledge of arms upon her, she still felt woefully unprepared for the day to come.

A sudden stirring at the tent flap drew her attention from her plate, as Lucilla ducked in looking flushed.

'My lady, Her Grace wishes a word.' The maid swiftly stepped out of the way, nearly tripping over her own toes in her haste.

Daenarys Targaryen was shorter than Sansa by a hand, petite and naturally graceful – but she radiated a powerful presence that made the very air around her seem to crackle with intensity. The Queen preferred to dress simply, in elegant black doeskin trousers and a crimson wool tunic with a thick cloak trimmed in ermine. A gauntlet-clad hand, belonging to a member of her Queensguard, secured the tent flap behind her, shutting out the cold wind as he stood guard outside.

Brienne and Sansa hastily rose and dropped into a curtsy before the Queen.

'Lady Brienne… Lady Sansa. Please, forgive me for interrupting your meal. I simply would not be able to sleep tonight, without speaking to you.'

Daenarys crossed the room and took their hands each in turn before seating herself at Sansa's side – a gesture of familiarity she was unused to from the Dragon Queen.

'Your Grace, you honor me.'

'Please be at ease, Lady Sansa.' Daenarys seemed to balk at her own words. 'At ease? I must sound a fool – how could you be truly at ease? It is a cruel thing I ask of you, Lady Sansa. I wished to express to you my gratitude in this, and to assure you as best I can that all will be well.'

Daenarys sighed and took Sansa's hand, smiling to include Brienne.

'Some may say it is a strange world we live in when ladies are called upon to fill such roles – but we are every bit as suited to the task. Our houses will flourish or die based on our actions on the morrow. We must be strong, and we must charm Stannis. Gods be good, there will be no bloodshed – but if Stannis will not parlay, I will have no choice.'

'He will parlay, Your Grace.' Sansa smiled, bolstered by the Queen's confidence.

Daenarys returned the smile, her violet eyes twinkling.

'He will indeed! For it would be a sad day indeed when the last Wolf and the last Dragon were unable to bring a mere Stag to heel. The very idea is laughable!'

_Laughable. Yes, it is laughable._ Sansa pondered the Queen's words, long after she'd left. It was already pitch black outside, and the candles on the table cast long shadows in their tent.

_Will Lord Stannis laugh at me? Surely the Hound would, if he could see me now._

His harsh, grating laugh often followed her in dreams, as tempting as it was mocking. She'd be walking the walls of Winterfell, or through the corridors of the Red Keep, and she'd hear him. A barking laugh, like nails on slate, and a bulky shadow – but try as she might, she could never find him. The laughter echoed off empty walls, and the shadows retreated to locked doors or terrifying ledges that fell away into blackness.

Brienne was already asleep, snoring softly. She'd taken a long time to settle, despite Sansa's urging that all was well. She'd had every intention of sleeping, herself – but it was proving difficult. Wrapping one of the bed furs around her shoulders, Sansa slipped from bed and padded softly to the small chest where she kept her personal effects, gently lifting the lid to avoid waking her companion. Inside were the few treasures left to her: a silver direwolf cloak pin her parents had given her on her tenth name day, a fine gilded hairbrush that'd been a gift from Jason Mallister, a pair of white lambskin gloves from her Aunt's wardrobe at the Eyrie and the only proper dress she still owned – gray silk, its widely darted sleeves and low neckline studded with tiny seed pearls.

With careful fingers she shifted these things aside until she neared the bottom of the chest and found what she knew was hidden there. Pulling free the thick folded cloth, she crept back into bed with the bundle clutched to her chest. As she settled back into the mattress, she ran her fingers over the familiar rough material.

'You'll be with me tomorrow, won't you?' She whispered softly into the stained white cloak. Even after all this time, it still smelled of smoke.

Outside the wind howled angrily through the trees. Sansa shivered under her furs and curled into a ball.

_But he won't. He's dead. They're all dead … and tomorrow I may join them._

Sleep was long in coming, but when it did – she dreamt of Winterfell.

She stood in the practice yard in a dress she'd made herself, long ago. A light snow was falling, and Sansa raised her arms to the sky, spinning happily as she took in her surroundings. It was only then that she realized she was alone. The yard was silent.

A sudden scraping noise broke the quiet, soft and distant, but it was enough to startle her and Sansa jumped. It came from the north end of the yard; scrape… scrape… scrape… The rhythmic sound of grinding metal.

Sansa walked purposefully toward the sound and the walls around her became a hazy blur. Before she knew it, she stood before the entrance to the crypt. The source of the noise was inside. She could hear it – scrape, scrape … echoing up through the darkness. The crypts had always filled her with a quiet dread, but she was overcome with curiosity and the strange and illogical courage one often gains while dreaming.

A torch flickered in its sconce by the door, and Sansa seized it – holding it before her as she descended the narrow and winding staircase with quick steps. At the bottom she passed the oldest tombs, familiar and decaying. The first Kings of the North, stately in their many long centuries of repose. The corridor stretched on and on through the darkness, with her small torch the only source of light. The scraping was louder now and echoed off the cold stone walls, in time with the soft pad of her footfalls and hushed breathing.

She was reaching the end now, where the newer tombs and empty niches awaited occupants that may never come. It seemed as if the scraping were right beside her now, but her attention was drawn to the statues lining the wall. Her father's tomb was there - newly completed; his face expertly carved, eyes sad as he stared outward from his stone chair. A direwolf reclined at his feet, head held high and proud. Lord Eddard's hands rested on his knees, upturned as if to clasp the sword that they should have – but did not – hold.

Sansa frowned. Had it not yet been made? Had someone dared steal it?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the realization that the niches beside him held new statues as well. To his right sat a ghastly figure which made Sansa cry out. His head was missing, replaced with that of the decapitated direwolf that lay at his feet. She turned quickly away, only to find the next niche equally horrific. Two small thrones shared the space, occupied by a pair of boys – their heads had been removed and rested in their laps, eyes wide with terror. The direwolves at their feet lie nose to nose, lips pulled back in a silent snarl.

'No, this isn't right!' Sansa hissed, moving quickly on. The next niche held an empty throne. A large direwolf sat at its side, ears upright and alert, and a small sword had been placed across the arms of the vacant seat. It was slim and delicate, and Sansa felt drawn to it. She leaned forward with the torch and reached a slender hand toward it, but the blade blackened at her touch and crumbled to ash.

The scraping sound was all around her now, mercilessly ringing in her ears. Sansa shook her head to drive it out, holding the torch high and spinning wildly to beat back the shadows. The thrashing light revealed a dark figure that leaned against the next tomb and Sansa froze.

'Looking for something, little bird?' The Hound eyed her hungrily for a moment and then laughed, the ruined corner of his mouth twitching with disdain. He stopped moving the whetstone against the pitted blade he held, and the scraping finally ceased.

Sansa dropped the torch.

It rolled across the pitted stone floor toward the Hound's feet and he jumped back a step before picking it up hesitantly and setting it down inside the empty niche. It glowered for a moment, but stayed lit, and Sansa could see the shadows playing across his face – good side and bad.

'You're here… why are you here? Why now?' Sansa met his gaze, but could feel tears beginning to well in her wide eyes. It wasn't fair! She'd waited so long to see him – why did it have to be in this terrible place?

His eyes left hers and returned to the blade in his hand as he turned it in the torchlight, checking his work.

'Bloody fools, the lot of us.' He hissed bitterly and gestured to the line of horrific figures. 'You pick fine company, little bird. Not thinking of joining them, are you?'

Sansa shook her head emphatically no, the first tear springing free and running down her cheek. In three quick steps she closed the distance between them and sprang at him, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. He smelled like fire and blood. The Hound tensed, sword still in hand as she sobbed against his throat.

'Make it stop – please, make it all go away. You can, I know you can!'

She felt him relax slightly, his free hand falling to the small of her back, but his voice grated pitilessly as his lips brushed her ear – a harsh, rasping chuckle.

'I failed you, little bird. I failed…'

Sansa woke with a start and sat bolt-upright in the bed, startling Brienne and Podrick where they stood by the table. Pod quickly covered his eyes as the bed furs slipped, revealing Sansa's nightgown underneath. Brienne spoke up quickly, striding to the bed with a nervous smile.

'I'm sorry, we did not mean to wake you. I just wanted to be sure everything was ready.'

Sansa's eyes scanned the table, which held her new set of plate carefully laid out in segments. Pod had indeed done a fine job getting it ready. It was clearly still dark out, but she knew dawn must be close. Sansa sighed and pulled her knees to her chest, the dream still clinging to her. The cloak still lay bundled beside her on the bed, but Brienne did not seem to have noticed.

'It's time I was up anyway, isn't it … Pod, give me a moment to prepare, and then we'll see about getting all of that on.'

The young squire gave a quick half-bow, eyes still covered, and left the tent. Sansa rose and walked to the nearest chair, where her clothing had been laid out – the warm leather breeches lined with wool, a wool tunic, and a fleece and leather surcoat that would keep her warm beneath the armor. She pulled each piece on, making sure they laid flat so as not to snag on the buckles. It was something she'd practiced several times with Brienne since the armor had been completed, and she knew the process by heart. Once the foundation was laid, Pod returned to assist Brienne with the plate. Gleaming steel, carefully forged to fit her small frame, it had been a gift from the Queen - another part of the carefully choreographed dance she was about to perform. The costume for the role she must play. Piece by piece it assembled around her as countless leather buckles were slid into place and fastened securely, checked and double checked.

When they were finished, Sansa paused to survey herself in the mirror.

_A sheep in wolf's clothing._ She thought glumly, forcing a smile for the benefit of her companions.

Brienne laid a thick hand on her shoulder, eyeing their reflections – the girl in grand martial regalia, and the true lady knight in plain leather. With an approving nod, Brienne picked up Sansa's helm from the table and turned to face her.

'The Queen will be waiting. Are you ready?'

Sansa bit her lip.

'No. One thing is missing.'


	3. The Queen's Envoy

NOTES: Firstly, thank you SO much for the reviews! They really are encouraging, and I couldn't be more grateful. Secondly, please forgive me for not mentioning it earlier, but: much of this story ties to details from the first 4 books. If you have not read them, there's a very strong possibility of spoilers. And finally, on the nature of my chapters- some will be strictly POV-based (as the first two were), and others, like this one, will not. I think this is the best strategy in terms of completing the narrative.

I'll do my best to update frequently, as the story is already fully plotted out- it's just a matter of getting everything down and polished! Proper SanSan action soon, I promise! *wink*

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><p>'Creep! Wake up!'<p>

Sandor grunted awake as a boot nudged his leg, and pulled enough of his hood aside to peer out at the face leaning over him. Dart's cheerful grin was particularly difficult to stomach first thing in the morning, and the boy looked especially pleased with himself today.

'Our betters are up early this mornin' … come see! Somethin's in the works, I just know it. Those ol' fops don't busy themselves affore dawn for nothin'. Bet ya a copper 'Er Grace is gonna send them dragons ta cook Lor' Stannis 'is breakfast!'

Clegane frowned. Perhaps they'd see action today after all. Hastily rolling up his damp bed roll, he stuffed it into his pack and stretched his stiff joints before following his eager companion. The night's sleeping fires had burned to embers, and the common soldiers were beginning to stir as Sandor and Dart wove through camp. Fresh fires were being laid here and there to prepare a meager breakfast, and he spotted a trio of camp cooks hoisting a large iron kettle over a weakly burning flame. The wet wood hissed plaintively as they struggled to stoke it.

_Bloody oat porridge again. Gods be damned._ Sandor gave the pot a searing look as they passed, hotter than the sputtering fire beneath it was ever likely to get. He'd grown accustomed to bland fare in his days on the Quiet Isle, but at least the brothers there had the sense to rotate the menu from time to time.

The first light of dawn had broken, cold and unforgiving. It'd been a restless night for most of the Queen's army as they stood on high alert – and with good reason. Scouts had continued to come and go in the night, and Stannis was close. The last reports to come in before nightfall indicated that his army was no more than a few miles ahead of them, where the Kingsroad began its climb through the foothills surrounding Castle Cerwyn.

As they neared the leading edge of camp, the general activity around them was markedly increased. Perhaps there was something to Dart's suspicions after all? Sandor frowned. The Barrowlands were a vast plateau of undulating hills, an uneven landscape of ragged clearings and thick copses of trees, and as the pair crested a small rise they surveyed the unusual scene ahead of them.

Dart had certainly been right in one thing – the nobles were indeed up to something. A thick cluster of knights and horses had formed around the Dragon Queen herself as she sat atop a pitch black charger, flanked on either side by her heavily armored Queensguard. As he watched, she swung down from her mount and approached one of the knights assembled in front of her, who was surprisingly small in stature. The Queen clutched the knight's hand for a moment, and handed him a rolled parchment.

Sandor's mouth twitched. What were they up to?

He strode down the hill with purposeful strides, edging as near as he dared to the royal party. A small cluster of men-at-arms had assembled on the edge of camp, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity and whispering amongst themselves. He had no doubt that many new rumors would have swept the entire camp even before breakfast was served.

The knight had accepted the reins of his horse from one of his much taller peers, and received a boost into the saddle from a nearby squire. Elevated in this way, Sandor got his first good look at the strange figure. The knight wasn't just short, but terribly small in general – he'd seen countless squires and even stable boys with better builds. Scowling, he wondered absently if the preening fool could even lift a sword …

The man's plate gleamed in the red morning light, and the thick fur collar draped over his shoulders ruffled in the cold air as he maneuvered his gray charger. The horse's head gave a spirited toss, hooves lifting gracefully as it turned in place. It's barding was gray and white. Winterfell colors? Sandor's brow furrowed as he squinted, trying to make out additional details. The rider was facing him and his eyes were drawn to the man's odd helmet. It was strangely shaped, with unusual decorative flares on either side that could have been ears or horns, the visor protruding with a snout-like angularity.

The knight turned slightly, gazing northward, and the helm's details became clear. It was a wolf's head – the beast's steel lips curled slightly, baring sharp teeth. The resemblance to the hound's helm he'd once worn himself was striking, though the features were sleeker and more delicate.

Sandor's breath caught in his throat. The Wolf. The camp rumors hadn't lied. A Stark rode with the Queen. But who? There had been five Stark children in all, but after the Red Wedding and the sack of Winterfell, only the two daughters remained. So a She-Wolf, but which? Had the youngest indeed survived and made it out of Saltpans? She'd been a nasty little piece of work – it was certainly possible. If not her, the only alternative was …

The Wolf accepted a banner from one of the assembled and couched the end of the long pole in a loop on her stirrup – it was a crisp white triangle that bore no adornment. With a final nod to the Queen and her knights, the rider turned resolutely and kicked the charger northward.

Sandor saw it then, and his heart skipped a beat. The ragged cloak that hung from her shoulders had once been white, but looked as if it had traveled through hell itself and emerged smoking on the other side. Great black, gray and green smudges had been scorched into the fabric, and the distinct rust tones of old blood stains speckled the shoulders – partially concealed by the new fur collar. It had been made for a much taller man, and the rippling fabric streamed behind her and over the thickly muscled flanks of the warhorse.

Sansa Stark. She was alive. She was here, and she was wearing his cloak. She was … riding away from him.

'Seven Hells…' he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wide and mind racing.

Dart regarded him with curiosity, nodding toward the action.

'What ya think they're on about? Who is that with the banner? Where are the dragons? Think the scouts were wrong? Could be Stannis buggered off in the night? Wouldn't blame him.'

The flood of questions washed over Sandor, unnoticed.

'Seven Hells!' Sandor swallowed roughly, eyes glued to the solitary figure making its way northward. She'd kicked the horse into a smooth canter, and was swiftly gaining distance down the road. Without sparing a single look back she rode on, her shoulders square and her grip on the standard firm. His eyes consumed the scene hungrily, following her every movement until the last glimmer of horse and rider were obscured by trees.

Dart nudged him, breaking his reverie. Sandor finally pried his gaze away from the spot where she'd vanished and fixed him with a look that would have instantly cowed a man with any sense – but Dart was not such a man.

'Stannis.' He growled finally, grip tightening reflexively on the hilt of the battered long sword at his hip. 'She's off to treat with Stannis. And you owe me a copper.'

* * *

><p><em>That went well. <em>Sansa told herself, eyes fixed on the road ahead. _I can do this. I can!_

The self-encouragement did little to settle the nervous fluttering in her stomach.

The horse maintained a brisk pace, and Sansa forced herself to smile. She'd named the proud gray mare Lady, of course, and she was a fine animal - one of the few things she owned that was not a gift from the family of her new husband-to-be. Granted, she and Brienne had stolen the horse from the Royce's stables before they fled the Vale, but she was still hers.

The information they'd received from their scouts indicated Stannis and his army were no more than five miles ahead and it would not take her long to reach their lines, but the tension was nearly unbearable. The snow-dusted woods and road were silent except for the sound of her passing – steady hoof beats accentuated by the soft whisper of shifting steel plates, ragged breathing and the snapping of the banner as it cut through the cool air.

She'd tucked the Queen's missive in a soft leather pouch at her hip. It was the only thing she carried, apart from the banner itself. Sansa wondered idly how it was possible to be so thickly armored, and yet feel so utterly naked all the same. The sense of vulnerability was almost unbearable. At least it was comforting to know that she was finally moving in the right direction. Winterfell was so close now, the closest it had been since they'd left for King's Landing that morning long ago. All that stood between her and home was the task at hand.

Unbidden, a memory of their childhood bubbled to the surface of her mind as she scanned the woods to either side. She'd hated riding when she was a child, but Jon and Robb had convinced her to join them in their antics that morning. The trio had managed to sneak three palfreys from the stables and were out the side gate in a flash, a breathless Jory Cassel left fuming in their wake as they ignored his repeated demands that they stop.

They hadn't gone far, just to the edge of the wood – their history lesson with Maester Luwin that morning had been on the Blackfyre Rebellion, and the boys were reenacting the conflict with childish abandon. Stick-swords flashed as they hooted and circled, the Black Dragon and the Red Dragon, cheerfully shouting insults and challenges with each slash and thrust of twiggy valyrian steel. Sansa wasn't quite sure what her role in the game was – she supposed she might be the kingdom itself, or the Iron Throne that they fought over, for there'd been no fair maid or beautiful princess in the story. She was sure there should have been, but Maester Luwin said no. Sansa concluded that it had been a very dull lesson indeed.

She'd been about to plead with the pair that they should go back before Jory managed to chase them down, when the hooves of Jon's mount disturbed a red fox that'd been hiding in the underbrush. The beast bolted and her horse spooked, rearing and dashing headlong into the trees. Sansa had clung desperately to the mare's neck, shrieking bloody murder as the frightened animal careened through the wood, crashing through shrubs and leaping a fallen log. It hadn't taken long for Robb to catch her, but by the time the mare finally stopped she was breathless with terror and white as a sheet.

Ser Rodrick had been very cross when they returned, and she could still remember the sheepish looks the boys exchanged as he berated them in the yard. Sansa had been packed off in tears by Septa Mordane, as she recounted the horrors of their ride and emphatically made a case for the fact that no lady should ever ride one of those terrible beasts. EVER. Jon and Robb had not taken her riding again after that, opting to include Arya in their games instead.

Sansa sadly exhaled a long white breath, returning her focus to the here and now. Remembering Brienne's words, she forced herself to focus – scouring the road ahead and trees to either side, senses sharp for any sign of movement. She knew she should be getting close now. At any moment she could ride up on sentries, if Stannis's outriders did not pick her up first. Surely they would have no shortage of eyes watching the road. It was entirely possible, if not probable, that she'd been spotted already.

She rode in silence for a further ten minutes before a sudden shout behind her made her bring Lady to a sudden stop.

_Here it is then._ She thought grimly, throat tightening as she turned her mount toward the voice. A knight was urging his black destrier onto the road, regarding her with a cold stare.

'No farther, ser. What is your business here?' The knight's voice was imperious and dripping with warning, though his sword remained sheathed at his hip. As he edged closer, Sansa was able to spot the regal red fox of House Florent on his surcoat. She smiled inwardly. This was one fox that wouldn't set her to flight. Not today.

'Good ser, I bring tidings from Daenarys of House Targaryen. I would be most grateful if you would escort me to Lord Stannis.'

The knight pulled his mount to a stop in front of her, close enough now for Sansa to make out the details in his face. His eyes had widened a little at her voice and the realization that she was, in fact, a woman. He remained silent for a long moment, and Sansa wondered if he'd registered her words at all.

He cleared his throat, and Sansa was suddenly aware that they were not alone. A dozen men at arms were emerging from the woods on either side of her, effectively encircling the two riders. They wore simple boiled leather and mail, and were armed with a mixture of lances and crossbows – all of which were trained on her.

'_King_ Stannis has little concern for any tidings from the Dragon Bitch… but you may leave your message with me and be gone from here. This is no place for a lady, if you actually are such.'

Sansa could feel the eyes sweeping over her, taking in the colors of her barding and the fierce styling of her armor. The stage was set, and the first act had begun. Sansa removed her helm in a fluid motion, shaking her wavy auburn hair free of its confines – satisfied with the muffled gasp that issued from one of the pikemen.

'I am Lady Sansa of House Stark, and my message is for Stannis alone. You will take me to him, immediately, if you value your life and the lives of your men.'


	4. Collision Course

They remained in the road for quite some time as Ser Ormond sent a freerider ahead with news of her impending arrival. Ormond Florent's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and Sansa found him easy to charm as hey conversed idly in the road awaiting the rider's return. The men at arms formed a slightly dazed tableau around them, reluctant to return to their watch posts. Despite their professionalism and brave show of arms, the undercurrent of tension amongst the soldiers was palpable.

When the rider returned at last, Ser Ormond urged his destrier into the lead slightly ahead of her own and the men at arms formed up behind them. The sounds of Stannis's encampment were evident before it finally came into view around a blind corner in the road. Word of the Queen's messenger had clearly spread and the fortified frontage of the camp glittered with eager eyes focused on her approach, and many of them were not friendly. A half-dozen knights of mixed heraldry met them to bolster her escort, as a ripple of derisive hoots and shouted insults issued from the gathered men at arms.

'Lannister whore!' and 'Traitorous bitch!' seemed to be the most common, interwoven with a fine selection of ribald sexual invitations.

'Where's your lord 'usband? Does he know you're out playing at soldier? Looking for a real man, are you?' shouted one particularly bold swordsman, over the other assorted jeers.

Sansa fought back the blush that threatened to fill her cheeks, keeping her expression impassive as she did her best to tune them out, eyes fixed straight ahead. Ser Ormond, at least, had the decency to look abashed.

'Back to your duties, the lot of you!' He sneered, flicking an armored boot at a pair of grubby soldiers that got a little too close. The men retreated a few steps and made a weak effort to appear busy, though the catcalls continued, albeit with slightly less enthusiasm.

'Uncouth scum… forgive them, my lady.' Ormond sighed.

Sansa favored the knight with a wan smile as they continued on.

'I've heard far worse, ser. Besides, actions speak louder than oaths – they'll soon see I mean them no harm.'

The few large pavilions to be found here were grouped on the northwestern edge of the camp rather than the center, with the largest on a slight rise flanked by a rocky outcropping. The banners there flickered boldly against their drab surroundings – brilliant yellow with a red flaming heart which dwarfed and consumed the traditional black stag of House Baratheon. Sansa dismounted in front of it and a pair of squires stepped forward to take Lady's reins and her white banner of parlay.

The inside of the pavilion was brilliantly lit by a dozen crackling braziers, which made it exceedingly warm as well. The long table that dominated the room had been strewn with maps, and Lord Stannis himself regarded her with an expression of cool hostility from his seat at the far end. He did not rise at her entrance, but merely leaned forward slightly – his long, thin hands clasped in front of his chin as he sized her up.

Sansa was immediately struck by the man's gaunt features – his eyes were dark and sunken, cheeks hollow and taut over his tightly clenched jaw. The north had not been kind to him. Stannis Baratheon looked like a man that hadn't eaten in weeks – hungry in every sense of the word. What terrible weight could drain any man in such a way?

There was little resemblance that she could see to the Baratheon brothers she'd met previously - both Robert and Renly had been so boisterous and full of life. Stannis looked far older than his years allowed, and much of the thick black hair so famous in his family had abandoned him – only small crops remained above each of his prominent ears. But his eyes were the worst - there was a haunted sort of hollowness there that disturbed her. She had known this would not be easy, but had not expected him to be quite so intimidating. It had been a long time since a man's eyes had unnerved her so.

_This is Stannis Baratheon and by all accounts, an honest and just man._ Sansa's lips pressed into a tight, straight line. _The Hound would not back down, and neither will I. Too much depends on this._

Quashing her unease, Sansa fingered the hem of her cloak absently and took two confident steps forward, but said nothing, setting her helm lightly on the edge of the table so as not to disturb the great rolls of parchment and vellum arrayed there. Tyrion's extensive coaching for this conversation had included instructing her to let Stannis make the first move. This man liked to be in control, and he hated surprises. Her appearance had been carefully calculated to push his expectations, but she could not afford to push him too far or too quickly. The key was to keep him interested, but off-balance. When he finally broke the silence, Stannis's voice had a deep, rich timbre she would not have expected from such a wasted figure.

'I must tell you, we've had our fill of Stark pretenders here, young lady. What sort of game has that woman put you up to?'

Sansa kept her expression placid.

'I presume you refer to Littlefinger's ruse regarding my sister. I owe you a debt of gratitude for your actions on her behalf, my Lord. Jeyne Poole and I were once very close friends - I hope she has not been too harshly treated.'

Stannis's frown deepened at her form of address, and she paused before slowly withdrawing the sealed scroll from the pouch at her hip and setting it gently on the table in front of him.

'As for my message – they are Lady Daenarys's words, my Lord, but I have come of my own volition. I wish nothing more than to see you united in purpose, such that we might turn our combined attention to the Wall. I believe you are well acquainted with my half-brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Night's Watch. We have been on the road for quite some time, but received a raven from Castle Black before our departure from the Twins. He reported the situation there quite dire, and I cannot imagine that it has improved after your forces were withdrawn …'

Her diplomatic choice of honorifics did not go unnoticed. Stannis glared, first at her and then at the roll of parchment, with its red wax seal. He made no move to touch or open it.

'Your Lady's aggressive advance left us little choice. Had we remained, she would have taken us in the rear without hesitation – do not bother trying to deny it. Additionally, you will not presume to scold me, girl. Your brother's plight is her fault, not mine… and the damage is already done.'

Sansa's careful mask slipped.

'Damage, my Lord? What has happened?'

Stannis rose, hints of his weariness finally becoming evident, and leaned forward over the assembled maps. For the first time, Sansa allowed herself to look at them – they depicted the full range of the north, from the Barrowlands, through the Gift, to the Wall and beyond.

'Castle Cerwyn received a raven last night. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea has fallen. The Others have breached the Wall.'

* * *

><p>Sandor focused all of his concentration on the axe in his hand as he thrashed relentlessly at the fallen tree in front of him. His shoulders ached from tension and exertion, but he paid them no mind. Every impact of the iron axe head rang in his ears as chips and splinters flew. <em>She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.<em>

The entire camp was on edge, watching the road and watching the sky for any sign – any hint that the battle was about to begin. She'd been gone for hours and the sun was now high in the sky. Every man in the Queen's army was on the alert, but Sandor Clegane was slowly going mad.

'Ay, take it easy there, mate. We're buildin' a fence, not stuffin' a mattress…'

Sandor stopped chopping, realizing he'd reduced a large portion of the trunk to mulch. Two men at arms shouldered past him irritably and hefted the newly cut and badly battered log, carrying it to its place in the line of new defensive barricades they were constructing. Unsure if tomorrow would find them fighting or marching, the officers had set them to better fortifying the camp. The work was a welcome distraction and it gave him an excuse to be on the north end of the encampment, where he could keep a hopeful eye out for the Wolf's return.

He wasn't sure what he'd do when she came back, but the idea that she might not return at all was unbearable. Why had she kept the cloak? What could it possibly mean to her? She'd always been a silly, flighty little thing – was it possible the little fool still believed in white knights and heroes after all she'd gone through? She'd certainly not find any of those with Stannis. He'd been at the Wall for more than a year, sending a constant stream of ravens from Castle Black with messages urging the lords of Westeros, great and minor, to rise in his name and march their forces to the Wall. Precious few had actually done so. Had the urgings gone out in the name of the Night's Watch, rather than that of King Stannis Baratheon, their results may have been better – but Stannis was not known for flexibility or diplomacy.

Eying what remained of the tree, he roughly measured where to place the next cut and resumed chopping in a slightly more controlled manner, recalling his encounter with Tyrion Lannister some months earlier.

The Imp had returned to Westeros with in the company of the Dragon Queen, and was one of her closest advisors. It had taken him two moons of relentless stalking, but once Sandor had identified his pavilion, it was only a matter of time – sitting, watching and waiting for a clear moment to slip inside and catch the dwarf unaware. Shockingly, Tyrion had not been overly surprised to see him, even as Clegane's hands pinned him by the throat to the floor of the tent.

'Where is she, Imp? Where's the girl?' Sandor hissed furiously, keeping his voice low.

'Sansa … Stark …' Tyrion sputtered, his mismatched eyes bulging slightly as his lips turned a faint tinge of blue.

'Sansa Stark! Sansa Lannister! Your darling wife, little man – where is she?'

Sandor loosened his grip slightly, only when it became apparent Tyrion was on the verge of blacking out. The dwarf gasped greedily, a fraction of the color returning to his face.

'Scream and I'll snap your neck. Tell me where she is.'

Tyrion made no effort to dislodge himself. It would have been futile anyway.

'I wish I knew.' He rasped, expression grim. 'I haven't seen her since Joffrey's wedding.'

Eyes smoldering, Sandor's grip tightened anew.

'You left her there, to pay for _your_ crime? Is that it? Tell me the truth, you little bastard…'

'No! She left ME, I swear it.' Tyrion croaked thinly. 'Someone spirited her out of King's Landing while I was in the black cells. I'd half wondered if it was you, to be perfectly honest – but I suppose you'd never have the wits for that, would you? Gods be damned, you mangy cur, let me go - and pass me that wineskin!'

An hour later he'd stumbled from the tent blind drunk and consumed by despair. For what little it was worth, the Imp had seemed genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of Sansa Stark, but there'd been no word of her whereabouts. He'd conducted his own inquiries upon their arrival in Dorne, but had come up empty-handed. Whoever had removed the girl from the capital left no evidence behind to indicate where she'd been taken – the trail was cold. If she still lived, she could have been anywhere.

He'd fully expected the Imp to raise the alarm after he left, that he'd soon be decorating one of the nearby trees. In a way, he would have welcomed it - so awakening in the mud the next morning half-frozen and with a roaring hangover had been a shock in more ways than one. Tyrion Lannister never sent anyone after him that day, or the next, and after a while he'd stopped waiting for the noose to tighten - finding solace in settling back into the colorless existence of routine.

What was it about that girl, anyway, that had made her such a central figure in his pitiful life? She was little more than a child. A beautiful, flighty, high-born child – head ever lost in the clouds, even as everything she loved was taken from her and the world around her burned. Sansa Stark was utterly foolish, and yet hopelessly alluring. She'd been such a gentle soul, innocent to the realities of the world – they were like night and day, black and white, and he couldn't help being drawn to her. Having her near had been soothing somehow, though it had been a constant battle to control himself. He'd wanted to touch her, yet hated himself for it. He could only hurt her – she'd be smudged and stained and broken by the time he was done, and he'd have destroyed the one perfect, spotless thing in his wretched life.

_She's a child, you bloody monster, and she's terrified of you – as she damned well should be_.

Once the fixation had taken hold, however, he was hopeless against it. She'd be older now, but the thought still filled him with shame.

As his eyes scanned the northern tree line for the hundredth time that day he attempted to decide on a logical course of action to follow when she returned – but the endless questions rattling around inside his skull kept tripping him up. Where had she been all this time? Would she be much changed? Why the hell had she kept that blasted cloak? Would she even want to see him? What the hell would he say? Would she cry? She was damned good at that…

_Ahooooooooooooooo…_

The mournful blast of the watchmen's horn caught him by surprise and he dropped the axe, which just narrowly missed his toes.

A rider was approaching – fast. The gray courser flew from between the trees at full tilt, and judging by the thick plumes of hot breath that issued from the animal's nostrils and the wet sheen that soaked its body, she'd ridden hard the entire way back.

Sandor partially registered the fact that he was moving, but all of his attention was on her.

The Wolf had returned, and something was very wrong.


	5. Unlikely Bedfellows

NOTES: As always, a huuuuuuge THANK YOU for all of the wonderful reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying the action so far. I meant to have this installment finished sooner, but ended up wrestling with the dialog far more than expected. Unfortunately I just noticed that this site does not tolerate duplicate chapter titles, so I'm going to have to get a little creative in naming my strictly POV chapters.. Which is a touch irritating, but we'll survive.

More familiar faces to come! And finally... well, you'll see. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

Sansa issued a breathless sigh of relief as the Queen's camp finally came into view. Lady was nearing exhaustion after their hell-bent flight, but the mare pushed boldly on, crossing the final clearing with long, quick strides. Every moment was precious, and she had no intention of wasting a single one – with Stannis's reply securely tucked in her bag, Sansa felt a thrill of triumph run up her spine, even as quiet dread coiled and uncoiled wildly in her stomach.

Making a point to hold her white banner as high as possible, Sansa prayed that the bowmen standing watch on the perimeter would take note of it and not fill her with arrows. Surely the Gods would revel in a sick joke such as that, but as the watchman's horn blew to herald her arrival she allowed herself to relax ever so slightly.

As she reached the first line of newly constructed defenses, Sansa reined Lady down to a canter. The tired horse unleashed a series of snorts as the pair wound their way between the wooden barricades, the cold air biting at the animal's sweaty flanks. Rounding the first, she came perilously close to accidentally trampling one of the workmen and cried out in surprise. The hooded man froze and she quickly edged Lady past him, calling a hasty apology over her shoulder as she did so.

'Make way, please!'

A crowd had gathered, but parted quickly as a pair of riders pushed their way through – their blackened plate with gold filigree and crimson cloaks marking them as knights of the Queensguard. The shorter of the two men hailed her.

'My Lady! You are a welcome sight. Come, Her Grace would see you immediately.'

The aged knight's expression was warm and reassuring, and Sansa felt herself relax slightly – a welcome sense of relief flooding through her tight shoulders.

'Well met, Ser Barristan. Thank you for receiving me.'

'A pleasure and an honor, Lady Stark.'

Sansa leaned forward in her saddle and grasped the knight's offered hand briefly, painfully aware of how awkward her plated gauntlets made the otherwise warm gesture. She favored Ser Barristan Selmy with a grateful smile as the two riders took up positions on either side of her, providing a buffer against the curious crowd of onlookers. The Lord Commander of the Queensguard exuded an air of experienced confidence that she felt instantly comforting, despite the harrowing pace of her journey and the grave weight of the sealed missive in the pouch at her hip.

The other half of her escort was younger, and while Sansa could not see the knight's face due to the visor on his helm, his square shoulders and austere manner instantly identified him as Ser Bayard Norcross – the newest member of their number, who had the distinction of being the only knight named to the Queensguard since Daenarys's arrival in Westeros. At present they numbered only four - and while Sansa assumed they would eventually be a brotherhood of seven, as was traditional, the Queen was taking her time with the appointments to ensure that only the best were named. Ser Bayard had taken a crossbow bolt in the shoulder shielding the Queen from an assassination attempt in Kings Landing some months earlier, and had been an integral part of her trusted circle ever since.

'I hope Lord Stannis was suitably hospitable during your visit today? He is not particularly well known for his charm.'

Sansa pushed her usual mask of serenity into place, even as she did her best to ignore the numerous eyes of the surrounding soldiers boring into her as they edged smoothly into camp and began to pick their way around the clustered supply wains and campfires toward the royal command pavilion several hundred yards away.

'As much as to be expected - I was received with all due courtesy.'

It was only then, as his eye traced over the cloak draped around her shoulders, that his voice hardened slightly. For the first time that day, Sansa regretted her decision to wear it. She'd hoped the cloak to be too battered for anyone to recognize it for what it had once been, but Ser Barristan had worn the white of the Kingsguard longer than any man alive - the discoloration and addition of the feminine fur collar had obviously done little to disguise what she wore.

'A diplomatic response, if ever I heard one. I do not doubt you handled him with the utmost tact and grace. Your father would have been proud.'

Sansa smiled faintly at the Lord Commander's sentiment, noting Ser Bayard's silence but unsurprised by it. He was a man of few words. Tyrion had once told her that the knight had been a trusted member of Queen Margaery's household guard for quite some time, but a long period of imprisonment during the trials had left him much changed – it was hard to imagine him ever being cheerful. As she and Brienne frequently rode with the Queen's escort when the army was on the move, she'd had ample time to become accustomed to the man's dour demeanor. He seemed honorable enough, despite his chilly personality.

Glancing ahead, Sansa noted that the wide entrance flaps to the command tent had already been pulled open in anticipation of their arrival, and the Queen's council was assembled. As they neared, the two knights spurred their horses ahead to close the gap quickly, dismounted and handed their horses off to waiting attendants. As her own mount came to a halt, Sansa gratefully accepted a steadying hand from Ser Barristan and swung down from the saddle – noting the expectant gazes of the lords assembled inside. The Lord Commander entered with her, as Ser Bayard took up his guard post outside.

Sansa estimated two dozen Lords and knights to be in attendance, and the Queen herself – seated on a simple, but slightly raised bench, with the final two members of her Queensguard – Ser Jorah Mormont and Rokharo Searider standing vigil on either side. A round table strewn with maps and correspondence was laid out in front of her, with Prince Quentyn Martell of Dorne and Tyrion Lannister standing on either side. Most of her pledged lords were there, as were those knights serving as patrol leaders and field commanders. The tension in the room was palpable.

Sansa removed her helm and dropped to one knee, bowing her head before the Queen.

'Your Grace. Lord Stannis bid that I to return to you with all due haste. I bring his response to your terms.'

Daenarys nodded formally.

'Arise, Lady Stark. You are among friends here. Please, deliver his reply.'

Sansa stood, withdrawing the roll of parchment and handing it to the Queen, who promptly stripped it of its wax seal and opened it. Most of those gathered had their attention fixed on Daenarys as she scanned the parchment, and Sansa took the opportunity to withdraw slightly – she could feel Ser Jorah Mormont's eyes scraping over her figure in a way that filled her with unease. He'd always been quite polite the few times she'd had the opportunity to speak to him on the road, but there was something about the intensity of his gaze that always made her nervous.

'Stannis has accepted our terms.'

Daenarys's announcement to the assembled Lords was met with a triumphant hoot, as Prince Quentyn gave Tyrion a joyous thump on the shoulder. Tyrion's expression, however, was pensive.

'He also regrets to report that the Night's Watch has suffered great losses at their outpost of Eastwatch at the hands of the Threat-beyond-the-Wall. They've been forced to abandon the garrison there and fall back to Greengard.'

The celebrations promptly ceased. The expression on Daenarys's face remained impassive.

'He bids us to join him for a combined council at Castle Cerwyn, that we might commence our united march to their aid with the utmost haste.'

Silent contemplation reined for a moment only to be replaced by equal parts of angry and suspicious muttering.

'Utmost haste indeed… into some damned fool trap, no doubt.'

'Proud bloody bastard should never have left the Wall in the first place.'

'If the men at Eastwatch have fallen back, the Wall is as good as lost – has there been any news from Last Hearth?'

'This is folly – we should crush them and be done with it.'

Daenarys retreated silently to her bench and sat, still holding the reply from Stannis. Gracefully she raised a hand and called the men to silence. The muttering stopped, as all eyes turned to the Queen – and Sansa realized in that moment why so many vastly different peoples had flocked to her side. Though they were very close in age, the Queen projected an air of patience and wisdom far beyond her years.

'My Lord Tyrion – where do you stand on this matter?'

Tyrion's expression was difficult to read as he weighed his thoughts carefully, reaching for a nearby pitcher and pouring himself a generous glass of wine. Sansa knew from experience that he hated to be the center of such intense scrutiny, but he had been named the Queen's Hand for good reason.

'Was the Red Woman with him, Lady Stark?'

Sansa frowned and shook her head tentatively.

'No, my Lord. Lord Stannis informed me that she remained at Castle Black with Lord Seaworth.'

'Did he say why?'

'Not specifically – only that they were working on some sort of defensive preparations there.'

'Interesting.'

Tyrion took a long swallow from the wine glass, returned it to the table and promptly refilled it from the pitcher once more.

'If he continues to concern himself with fortifying his defenses at the Wall, I can only imagine he hopes he will live long enough to make use of them. Given that our own force outnumbers his nearly seven-to-one, and that we have… other assets… that might be put into play on the battlefield, it seems unlikely that even the most clever ruse at this point would do him much good.'

Tyrion moved his glass to the side and gestured to the map in front of him.

'Before receiving official terms from Your Grace this morning, by way of our lovely Lady Stark, Stannis believed he had three options: Firstly, bend the knee. Secondly, hole up and wait for a siege – be it at Cerwyn, Winterfell or the Wall itself. And lastly, direct confrontation. Given that he undoubtedly concluded the first option to be repugnant and the other two suicidal; I should think he's quite grateful that he's been gifted with such a generous fourth option.'

Daenarys favored him with a half-smile, violet eyes flashing.

'Very well. We shall make for Castle Cerwyn on the morrow. Make the necessary arrangements. I shall keep Drogon close at hand until Lord Stannis's invitation proves itself to be in good faith. Let it be known, however, that we will not be imposing on Lady Cerwyn's hospitality any longer than necessary.'

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><p>Sansa was exhausted and shivering by the time she made it to the door of her small room in the top of the South Tower. Brienne had made good on her promise to redouble the intensity of their next practice session, and the pair had been sparring for several hours in a secluded corner of Castle Cerwyn's godswood. The castle was a modest holding, with a three-story central keep ringed by a quaint eating hall, a small smithy, stables and a sturdy inner wall accented by five squat towers – the entirety surrounded by a thick, crenelated outer wall.<p>

It wasn't the first time she'd been there. Out of all the holdings belonging to the Starks' bannermen, Castle Cerwyn was the closest – less than half a day's ride from Winterfell itself. At the age of nine she'd been permitted to join her father and brother Robb on a visit to the castle. It had been her first journey away from home – her first adventure into the world as a proper lady. At the time she'd thought Lord Cerwyn's daughter Lady Jonella, who was much older, to be exceedingly dull and trying – and that assessment still held true. His son Cley, however, had been quite charming and only a year older than Sansa herself. He'd asked her to dance once in his father's hall, and did not try to talk her into going riding or doing anything foolish that might dirty her dress – as her brothers and Arya did.

Sansa sighed at the memory as she worked the catch on the door and swung it open. Both Lord Medger and Cley Cerwyn were dead now, Cley himself having fallen in an attempt to wrest Winterfell back from the Ironborn. She spared Lady Jonella a moment of pity – she too had suffered great loss and was alone in the world, with no consolation but a cold and empty keep.

Sansa shut the door behind her and sat down on the room's only chair, a simple wooden piece by the narrow window. It was late afternoon, but the orientation of the window didn't admit much in the way of sunlight, and the room was constantly draped in melancholy shadow. It mattered little however, given the sparse nature of the accommodations. The room contained little more than a narrow bed, the chair she now occupied and two small tables. The only decoration, if you could truly call it that, was a battered high harp that stood in one corner. Her initial exploration of the space had revealed the sad old instrument to be hopelessly out of tune.

Still, it was a nice change to have solid walls and a proper floor under her feet, and one she didn't have to share with Brienne – the other woman having been given a similar room immediately below her own. The Warrior Maid of Tarth was a good friend, but it was nice to have a little privacy after months of sharing a room – particularly after the thorough beating she'd just received at her friend's hand.

With a weary sigh, she flexed her newly swollen right wrist before wrenching her boots off and tossing them against the wall, where they landed with an unexpectedly soft thud, followed by a low moan.

Sansa stiffened, noticing the dark shape slumped in the shadows by her bed for the first time.

Slowly she rose from the chair and inched toward the figure, which revealed itself to be a young guardsman. His blue surcoat bore an embroidered silver eagle, marking him as a member of the Mallisters' household guard. He was clearly unconscious. After a moment, she registered that he must have been sent to guard her door – but that didn't explain why he was now on the floor in her room, bleeding from a minor head wound.

_What in the Seven Hells is he doing in here?_

Kneeling at the man's side she gave him a gentle shake.

'Hello? Are you alright? Can you hear me?'

The guard's eyelids fluttered slightly, but he did not move otherwise. Sansa frowned and rose, turning quickly toward the door. _Better call for help, whoever did this…_

'He's well enough. Prim bastard should have taken a hint when I told him to sod off.'

Her hand froze on the door handle as the voice from her dreams rumbled from the darkness behind her, dry and dangerous.


	6. Bird and Battleaxe

NOTES: Quick clarification on the chapter title- the sigil of House Cerwyn is a black battleaxe on silver. I don't think it's appeared in the story yet, but there you go. Other parallels should be fairly obvious. Hope you all enjoy the latest installment! I've also enabled anonymous reviews - sorry for not doing so sooner. I'm going to try and get one more chapter up before Dance comes out on Tuesday, but we'll have to wait and see if that pans out. Regardless, there will be a span of up to a week without updates due to reading the new book - I'm sure you'll all be doing the same though, so I doubt I will be overly missed!

Fair warning- this chapter contains a fair amount of foul language. I'm strongly considering bumping the rating up to M, so don't be surprised if that happens in the near future.

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><p><strong>SANDOR<strong>

He'd expected her to scream, or at least make a mad scramble to open the door. He hadn't decided what he'd do if she tried. It'd be pretty easy to run her down, but then what? She was frozen, hand on the latch with her back to him, motionless apart from what might have been a slight trembling. He said nothing more, just watched her – until her hand slowly dropped from the door handle and fell limply at her side. His mouth twitched. _Fucking stupid as always. Should have run, little bird._

'Become quite the little mummer, haven't you? Dressing up and playing the wild wolf – but these little eagles know what you really are, don't they? You never were much of a liar.'

She still hadn't moved. Sandor felt his grip tighten involuntarily on the hilt of the sword at his hip, fingers flexing and unflexing as a degree of anger he hadn't felt in a long time began to bubble to the surface as he recalled the news he'd pulled out of the guard before knocking him out. Marriage to Tyrion Lannister annulled, now under the protection of Lord Jason Mallister. And s_he still can't look at me!_

'Smith's bloody iron balls! If you aren't going to run, then sit the fuck down. I didn't give that little shit a headache he's going to feel for a week to stand here and talk to your Gods-be-damned back. SIT!'

She'd already started to turn, but suddenly his hands were on her – he seized her roughly by the shoulders and yanked her back to the window before forcing her down into the chair so hard that the wood groaned in protest, even as an involuntary gasp escaped her lips. Sansa finally looked up, and for a moment their eyes locked. She'd grown a lot in three years and the baby fat in her face was gone. He'd forgotten how blue her eyes were. With disgust he noted she appeared to be on the verge of tears - her voice was thin and tremulous, barely more than a whisper.

'They told me you were dead.'

Sandor threw back his head and laughed loudly and with abandon, a harsh and bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls of the small room. Let them hear, let them come. He didn't care anymore.

'Don't I wish! Not dead, no. I'm beginning to think the Gods keep me around just to plague you. When the Imp told me he hadn't seen you since Joffrey died, I thought maybe you finally caught a lucky break. Never thought I'd find you in a filthy place like this, playing at swords and thrones with the rest of these fools.'

He was vaguely aware of the fact that she was still staring at him, but she made no move to reply.

'So tell me, why are you here and not off making a nest with your little bird lord, hm? You won't find many fine dresses or romantic songs where we're going, unless you've developed a sudden taste for shrouds and dirges.'

Sandor ground his teeth a moment in abject frustration before straightening and backing off a few steps, leaning against the frame of the window and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

'I'm going home… I just want to go home.'

Sandor snorted.

'So that's your game, is it? String them along until you get what you want? Good – perhaps you've learned a thing or two after all, little bird.'

A strangled sob wrung itself from her throat then, high and hoarse, like the cry of a wounded animal. It was enough to startle him into silence, and he regarded her stiffly, brow furrowed. His mouth twitched.

'Hate you… I hate you! You know nothing! You have no idea what I want or what I've done since you…'

She was trembling, but her eyes were filled with something he'd never seen in her before – a storm of pure, seething rage. She coiled in the chair like a snake and launched herself at him, fists flying. It was all he could do to fall back against the window frame, deflecting the frantic blows with his arms before finally seizing her by the wrists. Sansa yelped as his hand closed on the fresh sparring injury and struggled to pull away, only to find herself pinned against the wall.

The sudden closeness and spike of adrenaline were a little overwhelming. She smelled differently than he remembered – a mixture of sweat, leather and fallen leaves – which was unexpected but not entirely unpleasant. Gradually overcoming the shock of her sudden outburst, Sandor chuckled, a triumphant smirk twisting across his face.

'Maybe there's a little wolf in you after all... I suppose you'd need it to kill your King. You think you'll kill me now, is that it?'

Sansa squirmed and attempted to kick him, only to find her legs pinned as well. He gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the sensation of her hip grinding against his thigh as she struggled to break free.

'I didn't kill him – please stop, you're hurting me!'

Sandor's smirk melted and he loosened his grip substantially, but didn't release her. Sansa's eyes, which had always resembled rippling blue lakes, had taken on a sudden icy sheen. _Perhaps she has grown up a little after all._

'Shame. I really hoped you had. Little shit certainly earned it for what he did to you.'

All of the fight seemed to go out of her suddenly, replaced by something he couldn't quite identify.

'He suffered. That is enough.'

They stood there at an impasse for a long moment before a sudden firm knock on the door startled them both and Sandor reflexively released his grip on her arms. She stiffened again as her breath caught in her throat, giving him a quick glance tinged with alarm. Slowly she slipped away from him and strode resolutely to the door, which she opened merely a fraction – concealing both the inconvenient unconscious form on the floor and that of her unexpected visitor.

Sandor's eyes narrowed as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword once more, content to let the scene play out however it may. The voice of the man on the other side of the door was low and formal, with a slightly rough edge to it.

'My lady, Her Grace has requested your presence in the main hall.'

The pause that followed seemed to last an eternity, and Sandor's grip on his weapon tightened.

'Thank you, Ser Bayard. I'm afraid I will need a few moments to make myself presentable – I've just had a rather long morning with Lady Brienne...'

'Very good.' The voice seemed to pause thoughtfully. 'Lady Stark, we must see about having a word with your household guard. It is not seemly for your door to go unwatched, even here – stone walls may be reassuring after such a lengthy journey, but as one may expect there have been some disturbances in the camps and…'

Sansa's tense, slightly unhinged laugh reached his ears and the corner of his mouth tugged involuntarily upward.

'Your concern is very much appreciated, Ser. Perhaps the man was simply pulled away by a call of nature. Regardless, I shall see to the matter after I return from attending to her majesty.'

'Take all the time you need to prepare – I will await you below.'

She closed the door gently and leaned back against it, waiting silently as she tracked the sound of retreating footsteps. He guessed the knight must be gone by the sudden sag of relief that rippled through her slight frame.

'I hope you were paying attention – that's how one should seek audience with a lady. By knocking. Remember that for next time.'

The ice was back in her eyes, and it was a little unnerving. His mouth twitched. _Next time?_ She crouched next to the limp guardsman once more and lightly brushed her hand against his cheek. The man did not stir, but Sandor could see his chest rising and falling steadily.

'You had no right to harm this man. He was doing his duty, nothing more.'

Sandor snorted in spite of himself.

'Badly. If you're lucky, he'll learn from it. See, I did you a favor.'

Sandor smirked with satisfaction as her cheeks colored. She left the man's side and busied herself pulling fresh clothing out of a small trunk.

'Do me another favor and turn around.'

His jaw clenched, but he turned all the same – shifting his gaze through the small window and wondering exactly when she'd taken control of the situation from him. The view from her room wasn't particularly scenic, overlooking a muddy side courtyard near the stables. The scene below was busy, as a steady stream of carts, horses and men came and went through the side gate. Sandor made every effort to focus his attention on the dull scene below, and not the sounds of rustling leather and the gentle splashing of a wash basin behind him.

Curiosity got the better of him and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. She'd already swapped her stained brown leather pants for a form hugging pair in black, but she was naked from the waist up – her back was to him, thankfully, her long auburn hair spilling down its center in a thick braid. The sight of her bare skin was enough to shame him into returning his gaze to the window, but not before he made note of the bruises speckling her sides, shoulders and upper arms – some were fresh splotches of red and purple, while others were older and had faded to yellow and dull brown.

A wave of cold anger passed over him and his grip on the windowsill tightened, hands trembling with barely contained rage. For a moment he considered grabbing her and forcing her to tell him who'd put them there, but he restrained himself – unwilling to admit he'd stolen a peek, and resolving to find out on his own. When he did, the guilty party would pay for each tenfold.

'Now,' she said softly, preparations finally concluded. 'I trust I can rely on you to see yourself and our friend out after I've gone. I'd suggest waiting a few moments, lest Ser Bayard feel the need to defend my honor. I'd rather not have to explain the loss of a member of the Queensguard to Her Grace.'

Sandor grinned wryly as he turned toward her.

'I suppose that would be inconvenient, wouldn't it?'

She'd donned a simple white cotton shirt, covered with a charcoal gray leather tunic. The clothes were practical and flattering, but a far cry from the elegant court dresses she'd always worn before. Sansa afforded him a ghost of a smile as she moved to the door, gracefully nodding toward the unconscious guard.

'Please make sure that he's seen to and has somewhere comfortable to regain his senses.'

* * *

><p>He stared at the door for what seemed an eternity after she left. When he finally had to accept the fact that she hadn't tipped off the other guards to his presence, Sandor began to consider his options. He'd found her. Finally. No way was he going to let Sansa Stark slip away from him again – but that wasn't a promise that Creep of Yronwood's corps could make.<p>

Sandor ground his teeth. Time to seek new employment.

He flipped the door open half a foot, then stooped and lifted the unconscious guard by the underarms – pulling him away from the wall before hefting the smaller man over his shoulder with a grunt. He was starting to wake up and slurred something incoherent. As he neared the bottom of the stairs they attracted the attention of another watchman, who bristled.

'What the hell happened to him?'

Sandor deposited his burden unceremoniously at the foot of the tower and shrugged.

'Tangle with one of those burning heart bastards.'

He was across the yard and lost in the crowd of activity before the man could think to ask anything further. The castle was a hive of fluttering banners, with all of the lords and their attendants taking up residence there as the rest of the combined armies camped in the surrounding countryside. His eyes scoured the courtyard, checking the sigil badges of each party he passed until he spotted one that would suit his needs – the flaming tree of House Marbrand. His mouth twitched. _Must there always be fire involved?_

The group of guardsmen were lounging by the wall of the smithy, discussing the assets of the Cerwyn maidservants and passing a flagon of wine between them. Sandor tossed a pointed look at the nearest and the idle chatter paused.

'Who's leading you lot these days? Ser Addam?'

The guards glared suspiciously. The youngest straightened, hands on his sword belt, and puffed his chest out with a sense of self-importance.

'Aye. What business do you have with him?'

Sandor smirked contentedly as the glare melted from the face of the oldest of the three men.

'Seven Hells… thought you were dead!'

'I was. Take me to Ser Addam. Now.'

Marbrand was less than happy to see him. The conversation shifted rapidly from surprise to distaste with more than a few accusations thrown into the mix, and nearly come to blows before the knight finally agreed to set up the meeting with their liege lord. Tyrion Lannister's reaction had been less surprised and more wary.

'I had a feeling I'd be seeing you again. What can I do for you today, Dog? I assume you found what you were looking for.'

Tyrion was sitting with a book in his lap and made no effort to rise, instead propping his feet up on the table in front of him and settling more comfortably back into the cushions of his chair. Sandor suppressed his initial instinct to sneer, keeping his expression neutral. He knew from experience that Tyrion was no fool, and probably knew the exact reason for his sudden change of approach. Might as well take a gamble.

'I did – and knowing that, you know why I'm here, so stop fucking around.'

Tyrion grinned, snapping his book shut. His mismatched eyes sparkled with mischief.

'While I do admit the circumstances of our meeting are far more pleasurable this time than last, the question remains – why should I give you what you want? Your loyalties in the past have proven to be, should we say, questionable? Fickle? Unreliable at best. Why shouldn't I just throw you out on your big hairy arse and be done with you?'

Sandor's smirk finally became too much to suppress. His mouth twitched.

'As much as I'd love to see you try, I think you've got more sense than that. You know what I can do, and you know what my service is worth.'

Tyrion's own smile melted as he leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the table thoughtfully. He glanced out the window briefly and then back to the tall man in front of him.

'I suppose you'll be needing a new horse…'


	7. Dreams of Winter

NOTES: Greetings once again, my lovelies! This chapter comes with copious thanks to the ladies of SansaxSandor - I do not use livejournal (apart from stalking GRRM's non-blog, of course), but your support and kind words have been very much appreciated. And since this somehow managed to work its way through my (now cramped) fingers rather quickly, there might actually be a chapter 8 by the time Dance lands.. Hm! If not, I'll see you all when the world stops burning.

As always, hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

The great tapestry on the wall of Castle Cerwyn's main hall was tattered, moth-eaten and badly faded; but Sansa found its ancient hunting scene oddly comforting as she sat silently at the long council table, surrounded by bustling activity. While she'd been graciously welcomed by those assembled, the purpose behind the Queen's invitation had not yet presented itself – and Sansa had settled into her seat quietly, absorbed completely by her own thoughts. Her eyes scoured every detail of the battered and frayed hunting hounds as they charged relentlessly ahead of their masters in tireless pursuit of a threadbare boar.

The events in her room rapidly replayed in her mind with a dreamlike quality. Alive. Really and truly alive, so very close and so very much as she remembered – too much, perhaps, as she recalled the swiftness and severity with which he'd plucked the wings off the romanticized version of Sandor Clegane that she'd built up over the years. The shock of it was almost too much – Sansa wanted nothing more than to run back to her tiny room, hurl herself into bed and curl up into oblivion with the blankets pulled over her head. She certainly didn't want to be here, surrounded by so many men she barely knew or didn't know at all as they blathered on incessantly about supply figures, marching configurations and scout reports.

Scout reports – a brief glimmer of recognition passed through her as someone behind her mentioned Winterfell, but even that wasn't enough to stir her out of her own personal gloom. The lead hound nipped at the boar's heels with a surprisingly intact gleam of triumph in its eyes, even as the beast seemed ready to turn viciously sharp tusks on its foe at any moment.

Sansa jumped as the light brush of a leather-clad hand against her arm finally called her back to the present.

'Forgive me, my lady – I did not mean to startle you. I am much relieved to see you looking so well.'

Lord Jason Mallister smiled down at her from his position behind her chair. The lord of Seagard was old enough to be her father, but handsome in spite of his age and by all accounts an excellent soldier. As the commander of the Queen's second largest detachment of outriders – close to three hundred horse strong - he was frequently absent from camp for long periods of time. She'd become accustomed to his unpredictable comings and goings. Judging by his slightly rumpled appearance, she could only guess they'd just returned from their most recent patrol. Despite his warm expression, Sansa couldn't help but selfishly conclude he was one of the last people she wanted to see at that particular moment.

'My lord, you are most kind.' Sansa forced herself to smile through her haze. 'It is good to see you safely returned to us.'

Mallister looked genuinely pleased by her response, and Sansa felt a twinge of guilt.

'I regret I was not able to return in time to see you off, though it seems you hardly needed my encouragement – the _White Wolf of Winterfell_ is much the talk of the camps, I've noticed. As for the patrol - we made it as far as Barrowton, but unfortunately did not return with much for our trouble. Winter stores are perilously low for most and there's precious little to spare for even our gallant effort.'

His eyes sparkled mischievously as he ran a hand through his loosely cropped hair, a scattered glimmer of silver evident amongst its rich chestnut tones.

'You'll be pleased to hear there's been a patrol back from Winterfell as well. I passed Ser Ellis on my way in. Hopefully his account will be a little more heartening than the little information we've had from Stannis's lot. I'd hate to think I'm abandoning you in a ruin for Gods only know how long… Perhaps you should reconsider? I could still send you back to Seagard until this mess is settled.'

Sansa paled.

'No, please – you know I want nothing so much as to see Winterfell again. We're so close now I couldn't possibly turn back. We've long suspected that it would be much changed since…' The words caught in her throat and Sansa lowered her gaze to her hands, clenched tightly on the table in front of her.

Lord Mallister sighed knowingly, resting his hand over hers.

'Yes, well. The decision is yours, but I hope you will forgive my concern all the same.'

Sansa suppressed a shudder and the accompanying wave of self-loathing. He was only trying to be reassuring, and she hated herself for manipulating him so. Memories of a conversation she'd once had with Queen Cersei rose suddenly like bile in her throat. _'Tears – the woman's weapon. The man's weapon is a sword. That tells us all we need to know, doesn't it?'_

'Lady Sansa?'

The softness of Daenarys' voice was enough to snap her out of her reverie, and Sansa blushed slightly as she looked up into the understanding violet eyes of the true Queen. Lord Mallister straightened respectfully at her approach and earned a warm nod of recognition.

'Thank you for answering my summons – I regret I was not able to speak to you sooner. I wished to personally give you some news that I hope will ease your fears, if only slightly, for your brother's wellbeing at the Wall. There's been a raven from Castle Black, and the news is good for a change. The situation at Eastwatch was initially reported to be quite hopeless – but it seems that Lord Seaworth was able to dispatch a small force to rally the survivors at Greengard and they've since retaken Eastwatch. Inexplicably, the fiends that attacked there seem to have withdrawn completely. They're working to repair the damage caused in the last assault and refortify as best they can. The situation is still dire, but it appears Lord Seaworth has bought us some time…'

Sansa's jaw dropped slightly, chin quivering for a moment before she recovered herself. The Queen's words took a moment to settle in, before a glowing smile spread rapidly across her face. _Jon is safe! They need only hold out a little longer until help arrives…_

'Oh, thank you – thank you so much, Your Grace!'

'I have one more duty to ask of you, Lady Stark – though I hope you will find this one more pleasant than the last. I need to send your brother a reply informing Night's Watch of our approach, and I'd hoped you might be willing to pen it for me. I imagine the news will raise his spirits considerably, and even more so coming in his sister's own hand.'

Sansa beamed, standing so quickly she would have tripped over the legs of her own chair if not for Lord Mallister's steadying hand on her shoulder.

'I… I… thank you, I will do so immediately, Your Grace! But it's been so long… whatever will I say?'

'I trust you'll find the right words, but do try to keep it short so as not to overburden the raven.' The Queen smiled conspiratorially. 'When you're finished, take it straight to the ravenry – Maester Marwyn will see that it's dispatched with all haste.'

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><p>Lady was in high spirits the next morning, as they closed the last few miles of the road that would take them to Winterfell. Sansa and her escort had split from the main column an hour earlier, the army beginning its steady march northward to the Wall. She'd been granted a force of two hundred men, mostly men-at-arms from Seagard but also including a small company of horse from White Harbor, to hold and restore order to Winterfell until the conflict in the North was brought to a conclusion.<p>

She'd been thrilled and horrified, in equal measure, when Tyrion Lannister presented her with an additional escort that morning as they departed Castle Cerwyn. Brienne had absolutely rankled at the idea, and Sansa spent much of the march torn between reassuring her friend and avoiding the Hound as much as possible. Thankfully he seemed content to watch her from a distance, and she hadn't been forced into conversation with him.

When the ragged walls finally came into sight, Sansa was unable to suppress the sob that wracked her. Brienne quickly grabbed her arm and kept her from falling from the saddle, and she was able to compose herself quickly. The fire damage was immediately evident, completing the destruction of the already damaged library tower and completely gutting the ravenry – the massive front gate and Winter Town beyond were nothing more than a blackened ruin with bits of timber poking their way through the blanket of snow.

Everywhere she turned she saw a grim mockery of reflections from her childhood and empty spaces where fondly remembered figures should have been. A few haggard families of smallfolk had been discovered sheltering in the ruins, but they were largely abandoned in the wake of the slaughter brought by the Ironborn and the Boltons' betrayal.

Sansa helped with the inspection for a little over an hour before it simply became too much. Leaving Brienne in charge, she made her way to the godswood. She dreaded what she might find there, but some tiny part of her harbored a secret hope that it would be just as she remembered, and her father would be waiting there - to hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything that had transpired over the last five years was just a silly dream.

To her amazement, the godswood appeared to have been spared the worst of the fire. A few trees on the eastern end seemed to be the only victims, and as she wove her way deeper the great white heart tree came into view. The sight of the massive weirwood was like a punch in the gut. Sansa fell to her knees in front of it and regarded the tree's carved face in numb silence as hot tears coursed down her cheeks.

The eyes of the tree seemed to tear right through her soul, bearing every mistake she'd ever made to the world – every harsh word she'd ever spoken to her siblings, parents, Maester Luwin and Septon Chayle, Septa Mordane and every servant she'd ever encountered in the yards and halls of Winterfell loomed before her like cold, accusing spectres. She saw Cersei's cold smiling face, saw the terrible gleam in Joffrey's green eyes, saw her father's legs jerk.

Sansa's eyes burned from not blinking, but she couldn't look away from the weirwood's gaze. It consumed her.

The world around her seemed to liquefy, the other trees in the godswood melting into the ground until all that was left was Sansa and the heart tree – until the weirwood itself melted as well and she was left alone on a blinding field of white. The undulating mass that was once the great white tree began to bubble and reform, stretching and contracting, smoothing and bristling until the form before her was not a white tree at all but a brown direwolf. The creature regarded her with deep golden eyes.

It was as if her own body no longer existed – she did not breathe, she did not feel the snowy ground beneath her knees. She suddenly wanted nothing so much as to touch the beautiful wolf in front of her, but as she reached for it, her hand shimmered and passed right through the creature like a fine mist.

The direwolf's eyes seemed to smile knowingly – warm, accepting, forgiving.

_SANSA, YOU MUST SEE…_

The wolf trembled slightly, and the fur on its forehead parted painfully, revealing pale pink flesh beneath. The bare patch continued to stretch and contort until it burst open suddenly, forming a jagged wound that ran red with blood, and Sansa could suddenly see the glimmer of an additional golden eye beneath the torn flesh. Blood ran in thick rivulets down the sides of the wolf's muzzle and landed in great drops at its feet, leaving crimson stains on the pristine snow.

_SANSA, YOU MUST KNOW…_

She gasped as the snow around the wolf began to ripple, the spilled blood rising from where it'd fallen mere moments before – the droplets crystalized into the tiny jagged figures of men, red-black and terrible as they pulled themselves from the frozen ground. Other things were stirring as well – crystalline insects with needle-sharp legs bubbled from the ground like corruption from a wound, and together with the bloodied men began to swarm the still figure of the placid direwolf.

_SANSA, YOU MUST COME…_

The relentless attacks of the tiny creatures were opening terrible wounds in the wolf's legs and flanks, and as the wounds wept blood into the snow more and more bloodied figures rose from the ground, doubling and redoubling the strength of the assault. The wolf began to tremble violently, and great gashes burst open in its sides – loosing a sickening shower of blood that blanketed the white earth around it. Terrible sheets of bone and ragged membrane sprang from the gashes, stretching wide to the heavens. The direwolf's jaws opened at an impossible angle and a huge gout of flame spilled from its mouth, washing over the writhing ground. The flames consumed the red and blue crystalline swarm, and scorched the ground black. The shattered direwolf's three golden eyes gazed at her triumphantly even as it too burned, fur and flesh smoking and bubbling in a swirling torrent of fire.

As she watched it blacken in the twisting flames, she became aware of something new – the smell of damp earth, and a sudden violent shaking. It seemed terribly out of place, and she tried to push it away – but the shaking would not stop. When her own eyes finally opened, only two looked back at her – and they were gray rather than gold.


	8. Children of Fire

NOTES: *gasp* Mid-Dance update! Truth be told, I had this chapter 3/4ths of the way done before I started reading, so I figured I'd take a break to finish it. Fear not, no Dance spoilers - in fact, I'll be doing my best to keep them out of the rest of the story all together, for the benefit of those that will not be able to read the book for a while yet. I'm not sure if I'll get a chance to write any more before I finish the book (I'm barely half-way through at the moment), but we'll see. I had the next chapter doing cartwheels in my head last night, so I may need to write it out before it breaks something vital.

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><p><strong>SANDOR<strong>

The chair creaked and tottered precariously on its rear legs, then groaned in protest as the front legs were lowered back into contact with the stone floor. The Mallister guard regarded him with tight-lipped irritation as Sandor repeated the process, boot propped against the opposite wall in the narrow cell. _Creak, groan, thump_ – forming a steady rhythm that echoed in the cold nighttime air. He could see a tick beginning to develop in the guard's cheek, and the corner of his own mouth twitched with satisfaction. The man had long since given up the futile pursuit of clattering on the iron bars and shouting at him to stop, and Sandor had come to quite enjoy the petty torment.

It'd been three days since the wench found them – the girl unconscious beneath the great white tree, and the scarred creature predatorily stooped over her. The Maid of Tarth had not wanted his explanations any more than he had one to give her. She'd been quick to denounce him as the cause of Sansa's state, and equally quick to have him forcefully seen to his present accommodations in Winterfell's rather small dungeon. The Hound may have died on the banks of the Trident, but Sandor Clegane was not fool enough to think he'd ever really be free of the man he'd once been and the stigma attached to it – both through his own ill acts and those of others afterward.

Word of his reappearance had spread with the speed and malice of wildfire. The stares and whispers were a price he didn't mind paying to keep her close, but the lack of recognition in Sansa Stark's eyes that day had been an unexpectedly cruel irony. _Creak, groan, thump._ He couldn't get the image out of his mind of her blue eyes fluttering open, ever so briefly, and the complete emptiness he saw in them – they were his sister's eyes when she'd been pulled from the water. Judging by the speed with which the wench and her men came running, his reaction to that could not have been a quiet one.

Three days of misery. Three days without news. The guards came and went, but refused to respond to any of his questions. By the end of the second day, he stopped asking and settled into the cathartic rhythm of rocking the rickety chair. Meals were delivered on a reasonably regular schedule, but went largely ignored. While much of Winterfell's internal heating system remained intact, the water from underground hot springs that had run through hidden ducts in the walls for centuries had never included the dungeon.

A scrawny black rat scuttled out of the darkness, intent on the abandoned food tray. The _creak, groan, thump _of the chair blended with a new chorus of tiny sharp teeth gnawing on crusty, half-frozen bread. Sandor's mouth twitched.

'Psst!'

He turned to give the guard a suitably dirty look, but the man was gone – replaced by a scrawny youth of about fifteen. The boy wore simple leather and a thick woolen cloak, hands tucked under his arms for warmth as he avoided Sandor's gaze.

'I-, that is -, Ser, I've been sent to-'

'Fuck your 'ser', boy. What the hell do you want?'

'My lady-, my lady bid me to-, she asked if I could…'

Frowning, Sandor let the chair settle with a final _thump_, stood and kicked the food tray against the wall with a resounding clatter – the startled rat darted franticly past his heavy boots as he walked resolutely to the bars of the cell. He recognized the boy from their ride to Winterfell. There was no mistaking his slumped shoulders and skittish mannerisms.

'_Your lady_, eh?' Sandor sneered, resting his arms on the highest iron crossbar and leaning into it. 'You're the wench's little serving boy, aren't you? What does the bitch want with me now? Surely not the pleasure of my company, though looking like a hairless aurochs must not lend itself to having many suitors. I may be as ugly as she is - but I've no designs on your job, boy - that's for damned sure.'

Podrick Payne bristled indignantly, a gleam of defiance sparking in his dark eyes. His voice was low, but in stark contrast to his previously vacillating manner.

'I am Lady Brienne's _squire_ – and she is far more honorable than you could ever hope to be! I would thank you not to speak of my lady in such a way. While I would just as soon leave you here, it is not she who sent me but rather the Lady Sansa... Though why she would wish to –'

'Well then, _squire_.' Sandor released the breath he did not realize he'd been holding in a rough sigh of relief and Pod jumped slightly. 'Open the gods-be-damned door and let's be off. Best not keep the good lady waiting, hm?'

The boy continued to glare sternly, but pulled his hands out of his underarms and rubbed them together a few times before pulling a large key ring out of a pocket in his cloak. Podrick turned his look of distaste to the lock as he fumbled with the keys, trying several before the grinding squeak of rusty metal signaled he'd found the correct one. The door to the cell opened stubbornly, with a raucous groan from the half frozen hinges. The squire eyed him warily as he stepped into the hall. Sandor glanced up and down the hall in both directions, but there was no evidence of the guards.

'Just you, then? There's a bold boy if ever I saw one. Bold and stupid. They took my sword, true enough, but you're as dumb as your mistress is ugly if you think I couldn't just snap your twiggy little neck and be gone from here.'

Podrick shoved his hands back under his arms and hunched his shoulders. The world-weary frown that painted his face made him look far older than any boy should. Years of war had not been kind to the people of Westeros, high and low born alike, and he was clearly no exception.

'My lady bid me fetch you, so that is what I've done. I trust her, and she seems to trust you. I would gladly die for her, Ser, if it comes to that.'

Sandor smirked grimly. _Would you? Would I?_

He figured he knew the answer, but it wasn't something to be shared with a scrawny squire in a cold, dim dungeon. Pod seemed to take his silence as indication that he was not, in fact, about to die and led the way down the dark hall. Torches crackled in the wall sconces every dozen paces or so, casting long shadows on the damp stones. At the end stood a steep spiral staircase that wound upwards for a hundred feet before emerging in the northeast corner of Winterfell's central keep.

Winterfell looked little and less as he remembered it from years earlier, when King Robert had ridden north with half his court to claim his new Hand. Gone were the broad-shouldered and steel-eyed northmen in their leather and furs and the plump, laughing servants – replaced by nervous riverlanders in filthy mail that shuffled as they walked the ramparts, trying to stay warm. Sandor watched them as they crossed the practice yard and felt the burned corner of his mouth tighten. _Preening eagles, come to pick at the wolf's rotting carcass. Welcome home, little bird. Is it all you imagined?_

Before long they reentered the keep, winding through more dimly lit corridors and up several flights of stairs. From time to time they'd pass a pair or small group of Mallister guardsmen, but the men's' conversations always died when they saw him – replaced with glares of revulsion, which Sandor gladly returned in kind. He'd explored much of Winterfell years earlier, but did not recognize this portion of the keep – he could only conclude it must be the Stark family's private quarter. Mounting another short staircase they finally came to a wide wooden door banded with black iron. Pod reached for the door but Sandor put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him aside, raising his own fist and knocking pointedly before the boy could protest.

The door opened a crack, revealing familiar blue eyes wreathed in a mass of auburn hair, backlit to a fiery red by the candles in the room behind her. The flush that colored her cheeks as he let his hand fall away from the door did not go unnoticed. Sandor smirked triumphantly. _Ask and you shall receive, my lady._

'Inside, quickly.' Sansa edged the door open a few more inches before disappearing behind it.

The room was large, well lit and comfortably warm. It had clearly once been very grand, but signs of abuse and neglect were everywhere. Two of the three curtains were missing from the massive bed which dominated one wall, and the third was badly torn. A wide fireplace graced the wall opposite, where a pleasant blaze burned energetically. What had once been a cozy sitting area now held only a single chair with a suspiciously stained cushion. Its two mates and the ornately carved table that had accompanied them had been moved to a corner, where they lay in several disjointed pieces; likely awaiting repair. A large and stately wardrobe occupied the third wall, and though it was largely intact thanks to its heavy oak construction, both doors were badly marred by deep gashes.

Podrick closed and secured the door behind them as Sansa turned to the side of the bed and busied herself with several bags laid out there. She was wearing a practical dress of blue wool trimmed with fur, Sandor noted with approval, though it was ill-fitting and clearly made for a woman both taller and wider in the hip. Embroidered silver trout decorated each shoulder, and more silvery fish leapt from an embroidered stream across the small of her back. _The trout of House Tully. Her mother's_, he thought grimly.

'Forgive me for not sending for you sooner. I assured Lady Brienne that you were not involved in my… in what you witnessed in the godswood. I'm afraid she does not trust you, though she knows full well that you had no hand in the butchery at Saltpans. Still, she would have released you as soon as I awoke had I not instructed her otherwise.'

'Is that your idea of vengeance, Lady Stark - keeping me locked up with the rats for a few days? You seem to forget how much time I spent with the Lannisters.' Sandor sneered, relief at seeing her again bubbling away.

'You mistake me. I thought only to protect you. My guards love you not.'

Sandor laughed, loud and harsh as dogs fighting over table scraps.

'No, I should think not… But I need you to protect me from them about as much as a dog needs protecting from pigeons. I thought you were fond of pigeon pie? I hear the one at Joff's wedding was to die for.'

Sansa smiled wanly, a far-away look in her eyes. She shook her head and stuffed a woolen tunic in one of the bags.

'There are two hundred of them, and one of you. Forgive me for wanting to keep it that way.'

'Forgiveness doesn't come cheap, little bird. Why did you send for me now?'

She sighed softly and bit her lip, pulling the drawstring on the bag and fastening it shut before turning to the small table beside the bed and picking up a small piece of parchment. Sansa did not meet his eyes, but held the paper out to him. Her elegant, looping script danced across the page like kestrels on a spring breeze. Sandor turned his back to the fireplace, letting the light illuminate her writing.

_Brienne,_

_I have thought long and hard on what I saw in the godswood the day we arrived here – I know it was a message, and I know I cannot ignore it. I must go to the Wall, and as you read this I am already on my way. I beg you to forgive me for not saying goodbye in person, but I know you would do all you could to prevent me from leaving and I cannot allow that to happen. I treasure your friendship and cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. Your oath has been fulfilled – you brought me home, as you promised. If you should wish to stay in Winterfell, I would be honored to name you my castellan – but I cannot and will not force you to stay if it is your wish to return home to your father in Tarth._

_I have asked Sandor Clegane to escort me north, where I hope to reunite with the Queen's army at Castle Black. I know you do not trust him, but he has always been good to me and I know he will see me safely to my brother. Please do not be angry with Pod – I forced him to help me in this._

_All my love and gratitude-  
>Sansa Stark<em>

Sandor read the note twice to be sure he'd absorbed her words correctly. After longing for Winterfell for so long, how could she possibly want to leave it again so soon? And what did she mean about what she saw in the godswood? His jaw clenched painfully and he barely resisted the urge to crumple the note and toss it into the fire.

'You really are bird-brained, aren't you? You honestly think I'm going to let you run back to playing soldier? And not just let you – but take you there myself! No, little bird. No, you're staying here, at home, where you belong. You never should have left in the first place.'

Pod grunted in agreement from his place by the door. 'I told her that! Lady Brienne would never…'

Sansa wheeled on them angrily.

'Shut up, both of you! I have to go – you don't understand. Something terrible is going to happen. Something very bad is coming, and I must be at the Wall when it does. There is no hiding from this – not in Winterfell or anywhere else. All of Westeros will be won or lost at the Wall - the Queen and Stannis both know this. He said I had to see, he said I had to come…'

Sandor tossed the parchment carelessly on the bed and leaned against one of the heavy corner posts, glaring down at her. Sansa's eyes were wide but resolute, her lips set in a firm line.

'Who said?'

She seemed to hesitate.

'It does not matter. I must go – I _am_ going. With or without you. I can have Pod see you back to the dungeons, if you prefer.'

'Or I could fetch the wench to slap some sense into you.'

'I'd be gone before you got back. Choose now. Come with me, or stay here. I will not be in Winterfell, come morning.'

* * *

><p>They rode silently and were nearly at the intersection of the Road to Winterfell and the Kingsroad by the time the sun cracked the horizon. She'd had sense enough to change her clothes, at least, but that was the only concession he'd managed to get from her. The badly fitting dress was replaced by sensible riding leathers and a thick, inconspicuous woolen cloak. Her fine gray courser stood out in stark contrast to his own scrawny roan palfrey and the heavily laden brown packhorse they'd procured from Winterfell's dilapidated stable before exiting quietly through a postern gate. The warm breath of riders and horses alike rose in cloudy wisps through the chill morning air.<p>

This far north, sunrise had an eerie quality to it – and the pair of riders gained full benefit of the view as they rode eastward to rejoin the winding road that would take them north to their destination. The impossibly large orb of the sun seemed to boil on the horizon as it broke over the treelines far ahead of them, setting the snowy wood alight. The combined armies of Daenarys Targaryen and Stannis Baratheon had a three and a half day lead on them, and already several thick layers of fresh snow had fallen on the Kingsroad, obscuring the deep muddy ruts stirred up by countless marching feet, hooves and wheels.

Sansa reined to a halt at the crossroads and Sandor pulled his own sluggish mount to a stop beside her, glancing left and right as the Kingsroad stretched on in both directions. Right, to the south – the land they'd left behind. Left, to the north – and with it the great, unknown danger. Sansa's eyes were fixed straight ahead at the red-orange light of dawn.

_Utter madness_, Sandor thought as he watched her. _She has no place at the Wall. No place in any of this. I should tie her to the saddle and ride for White Harbor. We could catch a boat for Braavos, or Pentos – Seven Hells, she'd even be safer in fucking Asshai than at the Wall._

Sansa seemed to feel the intensity of his gaze and broke off her study of the sunrise. She smiled sadly.

'There was fire in my dream, you know. I should not have asked you to come.'

Sandor snorted and pulled up the hood of his cloak, turning his shaggy mount northward and pulling the pack horse into line.

'There's fire in my dreams every night, little bird.'


	9. The Messenger

NOTES: Still reading and loving Dance. Although I think it's raised more new questions for me so far than answered old ones... Alas, the GRRM is a tricksy beast. Speaking of beasts, I hope you guys will enjoy this chapter, otherwise known as "Storytime with the Hound!" Inspired by a number of different myths I found skimming around online, as I couldn't find one to fit my purposes. Someone asked, after the last chapter, about the Hound's ability to read- that's actually something I struggled with for a while, but decided to include in the end. As landed knights (rather than lords) it's very doubtful the Cleganes would have had a maester - but I have a few other ideas on where he could have learned, and it'll likely crop up eventually in a later chapter.

As always- GRRM's characters, not mine.

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><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

It felt as if they'd been riding for days, although the position of the sun signaled that it was barely noon. The silence was not helping the journey go any faster, though the weather was surprisingly fair. The sky was cloudless, the air crisp and cool, the sun glinting on the day-old snow as the pair of riders made their way along the rough and rutted Kingsroad.

Sandor kept his hood up and his eyes straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to her stunted attempts at conversation. Sansa sighed in frustration, listening to the snorting of the horses and the wind in the trees. Perhaps it was better that he said nothing. What did she expect from him? Friendship? Sansa scoffed inwardly, chaffing at her own foolishness. She really knew nothing about this man, and she'd put her life in his hands. More than once she thought back to Brienne and Pod, and wondered if perhaps she should have stayed in Winterfell after all. What if her vision of the direwolf really had just been a dream brought on by exhaustion and grief, as her friends suggested?

The stretch of road they now traveled was heavily wooded, and they'd been cloaked in trees for several hours. The trees were thick and old, and often their branches stretched well over the road itself, obscuring the sky – but it was a pleasant ride and the trees shielded them from the chill bite of the wind. Game was scarce and the woods were largely silent, their only companions were the birds that flitted overhead from time to time. Ravens and crows were the most common this far north, and Sansa watched them wearily. One scrawny raven in particular seemed to be following them, his oddly bedraggled tail feathers making him easy to spot. Any time they stopped to rest the horses, she'd look up and the raven was there – shiny black eyes glimmering down at them from a high branch.

'Seems you have an admirer.' The Hound croaked from behind his hood.

Sansa jumped slightly at the suddenness of his comment. The raven cocked its head and hunched its shoulders, dancing a few quick hops left and right on the branch.

'Is it following us, or am I mad?'

The raven _quorked_, and Sandor gave it an appraising look. He snorted.

'Mangy old thing. Probably hungry. Smart birds, them – see an army going by, know a feast is in the making. Must have straggled behind the others and is hoping we'll oblige, since we're stragglers ourselves.'

'You think it wants to eat us?' Sansa frowned as she checked the straps on Lady's saddle, giving him a disgusted look before turning her accusing gaze on the bird. The raven turned its head, regarding her coldly with one beady black eye.

'I hate ravens. And crows. Old Nan used to tell us all kinds of stories about them when we were little. They were always a sign of bad omens – treachery and curses and things like that. Plus they're dirty. I never liked seeing them when we'd go to Maester Luwin's tower for our lessons… droppings everywhere, and they're so noisy!'

Sansa eyed the bird, idly wondering if this was one of those same ravens. It was possible some of the maester's birds had survived the fire and escaped their cages. Sandor pulled his hood down and gave her a hard look as he swung back up into the saddle.

'Dirty, maybe. Noisy, perhaps. But they know what they are, and they don't try to hide it. I never had no nan or maester when I was a boy, but I've heard a story or two myself. Seems to me, ravens have the right of it.'

Sansa's expression turned curious as she pulled herself onto the horse's back. She watched as he turned his mount back onto the road, pulling the pack horse behind and gave Lady a light kick to catch up. The gray mare covered the distance effortlessly and was soon even with his shaggy palfrey. Though he seemed content to leave it at that, her interest was piqued and she was eager for a distraction.

'What do you mean? What was the story you heard? About ravens, I mean.'

As she watched him, his mouth seemed to tighten a little. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. _Did he not hear me, or is he simply being stubborn? _Her brow furrowed with disappointment.

'Ravens were one of the first beasts created by the Seven,' he said finally, eyes still on the road. 'You had a septa, did she not tell you this story?'

Sansa shook her head, watching him hungrily.

'I don't think so. Please tell me, I'm tired of all this quiet. A story would be nice to pass the time.'

She saw his cool gray eyes flicker toward her briefly, a sour look on his face.

'When the Seven first set out to create life, they couldn't agree on what sort of creature would be perfect to inhabit their new world… So they made a contest of it. The Crone said, "We will each make a beast, and we will witness these creations as they come forth. Through this we shall judge and choose." So they each went off alone to work on their new beasts, away from the prying eyes of the others. The Father made Horse, which was fast and noble. The Mother made Dog, which was loyal and loving. The Maiden made Swan, beautiful and graceful. The Warrior made Lion, fierce and proud. The Crone made Owl – wise and all-seeing, even in darkness. The Smith made Ox, strong and hard-working. Finally, the Stranger made Raven – clever and cruel.'

Sansa listened with rapt attention, leaning forward in her saddle. She frowned, nose wrinkling with distaste.

'See, it's cruel. And if the Stranger made it, it certainly isn't a very nice beast.'

He glared at her. 'That's hardly the end of the story. But if you've heard enough…'

'No! I'm sorry, please tell me the rest.'

'The Seven gathered together when their work was done, and presented their beasts. All agreed that each was lovely to behold, but only by turning them loose in the world could they judge them truly. So the seven beasts were released to explore the world as they would, and while the others were content to roam and explore the hills, valleys, skies and forests, the Raven soon grew bored and mischievous. Since he was a clever bird, he figured he'd show the Seven why he was the best of the beasts by outsmarting the others.

First he approached Horse, who was very proud of his size and endurance. He said to Horse – "Let's race, you and I. We shall find a long and flat place to make it fair, since you must run and I must fly." He led Horse to the coast, as it was long and flat where the earth met the sea. The race began, and Horse ran as quickly as the wind itself, while Raven followed above. Horse had to work very hard to keep pace, as the sands were soft and clutched at his hooves. Raven caught the sea breezes and glided along with ease. Horse began to tire and grew very thirsty, but was too proud to submit. Eventually he got so thirsty he could not continue and not knowing better, Horse drank deeply from the sea. Horse died and Raven consumed his body, taking the Horse's speed for his own.'

Sansa gaped, appalled but overcome with a sense of morbid fascination.

'That's ghastly! What happened next? Did he kill ALL of them?'

Sandor's mouth twitched into a smirk.

'No, he didn't have to. Dog cherished the company of the other beasts, so he led her away with tales and promises of grand things, then abandoned her in the deep wood. The others did not hear her cries, and in her loneliness she lost all sense of love and loyalty, growing wild and savage instead. He lured Swan down from the sky and showed her a pool of clear water, where she grew so enamored with her own reflection in the surface of the pond that she decided to stay there – growing fat and ungainly, and losing her mastery of the air. Lion boasted of his dominion over the land, so Raven dared him to swim across the widest of all rivers. The great cat had swum streams before, but the current here was swift and powerful and Lion nearly drowned. Though he made it across the river, he was so bedraggled and humiliated that he retreated into a dark cave to sulk.

Owl, being very wise, was aware of Raven's trickery. She avoided him, using her mastery of the night to stay clear of her ambitious brother. During the day she hid in the hollows of trees, and it was there that Raven found her as she slept one afternoon. Quietly, he covered the entrance to her nest with branches and leaves. Owl was very tired from her nighttime activities, so she did not awaken even as Raven pecked at the outer bark of the tree above her den until the thick amber sap flowed from it freely. The sap covered the twigs and leaves he'd placed across her door and dried to hardness, sealing her inside.'

'Entombed in a tree? How awful. The poor owl…' Sansa sighed, lost for a moment in the sound of his rough voice and the rhythmic plodding of the horses.

'That left only Ox. Ox loved the land, and spent much of his time looking down at the plants that grew around his feet. He watched as they flowered and bore seeds, and saw the seeds fall to the ground. He saw the earth consume the seeds, and how new plants would rise from them. He liked eating some plants more than others, so one day he decided to see if he could grow his own – so he dug long furrows with his hooves and planted the seeds. He worked tirelessly, from dawn to dusk. At the end of the day he settled down to sleep, dreaming of the delicious new plants he would eat the next day – but Raven came in the night and dug up his seeds, eating them one and all. Ox was puzzled the next morning, awakening to find his garden bare – so he started again, digging and planting until the sun set – and again, Raven came in the night and picked the garden clean. Ox awoke once more and cried in despair, realizing all of his hard work was for naught.'

'But if they each loved their creations, how could the Seven just sit idly by and watch the raven be so terrible to their other beasts?'

Sandor's stern expression seemed to break briefly and he met her gaze, shrugging.

'Same way they watch children starve and men murder one another for rocks and titles, I'd imagine. The Raven's deeds didn't go unnoticed though. When all was done, they called Raven before them and scolded him for his cruelty. But Raven was ever clever, and turned the blame on his own maker. Thus did the Stranger earn the duty of cleaning up after his creation and all others, tasked with seeing the fallen into the afterlife.'

They rode in silence for quite some time. Sansa nibbled at her lower lip in thought, frowning all the while_. I should have known better than to ask. He has no love for tales of knights and fair maids. Cruel stories are all I could ever hope to get from the Hound._

'Who told you this story? You said you had no maester. Who gave your lessons when you were young?'

Clegane grunted and pulled the hood of his cloak back up. They were approaching a break in the wood, and the wind was picking up as they neared open ground.

'Two questions, two very different answers. Tales for another time, little bird – now quit your chirping.'

With a sigh she pulled her wool cloak tightly about her and scanned the treetops for the raven. Her breath caught as she realized it was indeed following them still, only now the bird was not alone. A dozen or more ravens and crows dotted the trees above their heads – hunched and peering down at them eagerly, their fluffed black feathers gleaming dully in the dapple of sunlight breaking through the treetops. The sudden firm grip of a hand on her arm made her jump and she pulled Lady to a quick stop, even with Sandor's horse. At first she thought he'd seen the birds as well, but his eyes were on the horizon, where a thick haze of gray-black smoke could be seen far ahead.

Sansa squinted, ravens temporarily forgotten.

'What is that… Do you think it's the camp? I thought it would take us much longer to catch them…'

'They'd be marching by day. There wouldn't be fires.' Sandor's half-ruined face contorted into a scowl.

His face told her everything his words did not. Something was wrong, and she felt a chill of quiet dread creep up her spine.


	10. Night Terrors

NOTES: Greetings once again. I hope this chapter will do a little to make up for anyone who thought the last was lacking in action - although I'm glad to hear that many of you enjoyed the little tale within a tale. I've always liked the concept of the Seven, and it was fun to get a chance to play with it.

Anyway, enough rambling from me - On with the show!

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><p><strong>SANDOR<strong>

The morning air was crisp, clear and cold as the wood gave way to gently rolling hills along the frozen shores of the Last Lake. They'd camped in a small copse of trees a few hundred yards off the road – enough to go unnoticed should anyone pass by, but near enough to keep the road itself in view. They'd lit no fire, and it had been a long, tense night. Luckily the weather had been relatively kind and no new snow had fallen. He'd taken the first watch, huddled outside the entrance flap of the thick canvas tent in his thick woolen cloak and a fur throw. The skies were clear and the moon was bright, bathing the half-frozen landscape in a silvery light.

When it came time to awaken Sansa a few hours before dawn to change the watch he'd hesitated, watching her for a short time as she slept. The soft, carefree look on her face filled him with guilt, like a feral cat clawing at his guts. After a while he nudged her awake, and once the fog of sleep cleared from her eyes he asked her to reconsider – to turn back for Winterfell, where she belonged. She'd simply shaken her head sadly, bundled up and slipped from the tent; leaving him to a fitful sleep. In the morning he'd asked again, and again she refused – citing something her father had once said.

'_When winter comes, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives… Winter is nearly here and we won't find any stronger pack than what awaits us at the Wall. My brother will not want me there any more than you do, but I must go. We must go.'_

Sandor stole a glance at the girl riding beside him from time to time, but her expression was as neutral and smooth as stone. She was of the north, but it seemed as if this place was as unknown to her as it was to Sandor himself – names and lines on a map, nothing more. Last Lake, Last River, Last Hearth… every feature this far north was named with a sort of disturbing finality.

_A woods blaze, nothing more_ – he told himself for the tenth time. The fact that whatever burned between them and the wall seemed to have guttered out during the night was at least a little reassuring. Midmorning they began to see the first signs of the army that'd passed ahead of them – churned and rutted snow, mounds of horse dung frozen hard. On the open ground the column had spread far wider than the road itself, carving a thick path.

They saw the dark shapes first – indistinguishable piles of blackness scattered in the distance; but as they neared, the smell hit them. The ground became increasingly disturbed – a huge ring of muddied slush and the debris of cooking fires. His palfrey snorted and tossed its head as they neared, increasingly agitated.

'Stop.' Sandor grunted and swung down from his saddle, handing Sansa the reins. Her mouth moved as if to protest, but she said nothing as he edged forward to investigate on foot.

Although the pyres no longer blazed, the blackened heaps still smoldered and the stench of burnt flesh seemed to hang above the ground like an oily blanket. There were five in all, clustered off the eastern side of the road – and in each lay a twisted heap of scorched corpses. Sandor drew his sword and prodded into one pile with its tip, but found little to distinguish one body from another. Bits of blackened ring mail remained, and here and there a charred fragment of studded leather – but little else to identify who they'd been.

He sheathed his sword and looked northward. It seemed as if the column had narrowed again and continued on once their grisly work was done, though several more black heaps could be seen to the northeast along the lake shore. Sansa edged forward with the horses, the hem of her cloak pulled over her nose.

'Who were they?' She asked quietly.

'Not sure. Might be Stannis's boys started some trouble. There's something else on ahead. Best go have a look. Stay close.'

The shores of Last Lake were largely frozen, with ice extending far toward the center of the narrow stretch of water. As they wound their way along the edge he wondered idly how deep the lake was and if it would freeze solid when winter truly came. As they approached the first of the smaller blackened heaps, his palfrey reared with a scream. Sansa's mare tossed its head in irritation and even the mangy old pack horse whinnied in distress. Sandor wrestled with the reins until his mount settled, edging it between the charred mound and the other two horses.

It was the corpse of a horse – a northern palfrey, he guessed, based on its size – and it had been burned where it fell. A mass of charred entrails spilled from the beast's opened gut into the mud and portions of the corpse were burned to the bone, which gleamed a sickly black in the morning sunlight. At least a dozen more dead and burned horses littered the lake side ahead of them, with clusters of eager crows and ravens in attendance. The birds merrily picked at the corpses, hopping about and squabbling over the half-burnt scraps.

_Raven and Horse on the shore. Should have kept my big mouth shut._

Sandor stared down at the corpses with distaste for a few moments, though Sansa seemed eager to be away from them. They pulled their mounts back toward the road and moved off in silence.

'Why would they burn the horses?' She asked after a while.

'Wondered the same. Waste of good meat, that – who knows how long they'll be stuck at the Wall… supplies are precious, food especially. Sooner we catch them up, the sooner we can ask. Though I'm not sure we'll like the answer.'

Sansa chewed her lip thoughtfully and scanned the horizon.

'Tyrion told me once that the Queen's dragons only eat cooked meat... But it doesn't make sense that they'd kill horses and just leave the bodies. They always hunt well away from camp. The Queen doesn't let them come any nearer than she must. I think she's afraid someone might hurt them.'

Sandor snorted.

'Definitely wasn't dragons. Someone piled wood on those corpses and left them to burn. Not sure if the birds appreciate their effort though. Regardless, _Dragonslayer_ is one title I can live without adding to my long and celebrated list of accomplishments. Something tells me we'll be needing those beasts before this is done.'

They saw little else of interest that afternoon until they reached the banks of the Last River, where the tracks of the army suddenly seemed to split. Sandor's eyes followed the narrow path that'd been beaten through the ice-encrusted snow along the northern side of the riverbank, heading east. A group of riders had clearly left the main column, traveling single file – though he could not say how many.

'Looks like they sent a patrol to Last Hearth,' Sansa said – confirming his suspicion. 'I don't think it's far from here. A day's ride, maybe two. I believe Karhold is another two or three days beyond that.'

'A patrol indeed. Think it was your little eagle lord?'

Sandor watched with satisfaction as her cheeks colored.

'Lord Mallister is a good man. I will not have you speaking unkindly of him.'

He smirked bitterly.

'Good… oh, I'm sure he is. Nice little trophy you'll be for him too, hm? A pretty little prize for the Queen's good soldier. Tell me, what's he done to make the famed _White Wolf of Winterfell_ so eager to be back in a cage?'

The only reply he received was a frigid look as Sansa dug her heels into her gray mare and put several horse-lengths of distance between them. Sandor's jaw tightened, eyes boring into her back – there was no more conversation until sunset, when they stopped to make camp on the edge of the Gift. The landscape was predominantly rolling hills with the occasional cluster of pines. Though the trees offered little in the way of protection, they found a small grove not too far off the road and hobbled the horses while he set up the tent and she went on a futile search for firewood. Something in the air had changed since they'd crossed the river – there was little wind, but the temperature was dropping steadily. In the end Sansa was forced to settle for cutting loose several live branches from the surrounding pines to supplement the meager amount of deadfall on the ground. They were damp from clinging snow and sappy – likely to produce more smoke than actual flame.

The days were becoming shorter as autumn retreated into memory, and the nights in the north seemed far blacker than they ever had in the south. He'd spent far too much time in King's Landing, where the night sky looked more like a smoky, wine-stained smudge. The Quiet Isle had shown him the true potential of night, but the northern sky put even that to shame. Something about the cold gave the air a unique crispness and clarity, and the stars seemed closer somehow – countless points of light strewn across the Seven Heavens. He'd learned long ago to enjoy small pleasures, for they were few and far between – and there'd be no stars to light the long night when the Stranger came to collect him. The rising moon had waned to half-full and seemed to glare down from the sky like a great, cold eye.

The moon was not the only cold thing about this night, however – and Sandor was relieved when Sansa finally got the pine trimmings to catch. It took her more than an hour, stooped over the pile of branches on the damp ground; but she seemed to welcome the distraction. The branches hissed and popped plaintively as she snapped and twisted off small pieces of wood to add to the pile. Sandor retrieved some bread, cheese and salted fish from their bags along with a skin of cider, and the pair ate in silence as they stared morosely at the curls of smoke rising from the meager fire.

When the food was gone, Sandor took up his position next to the tent's entrance and Sansa retreated inside without a word – calf brushing his arm as she slipped inside. Sandor pulled his cloak and skins tighter around himself to ward off the night air, but the chill seemed to bore right through them. He eyed the hissing pile of branches with disgust and thought back to what little they'd seen of the followers of R'hllor that marched with Stannis – they were all about fire, those ones; and the blazes they prayed around each night were big enough to make his skin crawl. It was easy to see how their strange red god could seem appealing in a climate such as this, but being cold was preferable to getting near a fire like that. All the same, he found himself wishing their own blaze was at least a little more fearsome.

_For the night is dark and full of terrors…_ Sandor thought bitterly.

His thoughts trailed back to the pyres by the lake. Had religious tensions been enough to spark that level of infighting? Followers of the old gods and new had found a tolerant balance of sorts over the centuries, but this religion from the east was new to most – and _new_ was threatening, whatever their practices may be. His year on the Quiet Isle had not made him a pious man, by any means – but the thought of people worshiping fire and burning live sacrifices to their hungry red god was enough to make him want to kill a few of the bastards himself.

Sandor blew a long white breath into the night air when one of the horses whickered suddenly. All three began to paw at the ground, pulling at their teathers. Within seconds he was on his feet, stiff legs protesting, hand falling instinctively to the hilt of his longsword. His eyes searched eagerly for the cause of the disturbance, but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

_Coyote, most like._ He thought with irritation, moving to the side of the nearest horse and giving it a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The horse balked at his touch and sidled away, bumping its withers against the animal next to it which screamed in response. All three tossed their heads frantically, trying to pull loose of the tethers even as they stooped to nip at the leather straps that hobbled their front legs.

Somewhere in the darkness, a whiny answered their cries. Sandor froze, sword in hand, pulse quickening as a queer smell crept into his nostrils. A branch snapped amidst the dark trees, and he heard the unmistakable sound of iced snow crunching under hooves.

'Show yourself!' He shouted, sidestepping to place himself between the noise and the tent.

For a moment the tree line was silent, but then another branch snapped and the head of a horse pushed its way through the pines suddenly. Its back appeared to be empty, though it wore a saddle. _A horse, but no rider?_ The beast snorted and smacked its fleshy lips against the bit in its mouth, then pushed its shoulders forward through the brush and turned its head, regarding the man in front of it with milky white eyes that danced with a frosty blue light unlike any he'd ever seen. The wind shifted then, and an unholy stench hit him as their own horses renewed their screaming. As it pulled free of the trees, the underbrush seemed to drag along behind the creature. Only then did he realize the source of the smell was the great twisted rope of blackened entrails that dangled from a monstrous gash in the animal's side.

'Gods be good…' Sandor raised the sword and retreated a step as the creature advanced stiffly, swollen tongue lolling from its mouth with every stride.

'Back, beast! HAH! Back!'

The creature took little notice of the sword brandished in its face and continued to lurch forward across the frozen ground. Though his own breath rose in clouds with every shout, Sandor could see no such wisps from the mouth and nostrils of the nightmare as it jerked its way toward him. The dead beast's scream broke the air again as it gnashed its teeth and lashed out with a battered foreleg. Sandor reeled sideways and swung hard at the horse's raised limb. The blade of the sword connected with a brittle crunch and the horse's leg contorted just below the shoulder, dangling from its body by a few strands of muscle and tendon. The beast paused a moment and shifted its weight, cold eyes gleaming with a light of their own.

Sansa screamed, and Sandor's eyes flicked toward the sound briefly – spotting her at the entrance to the tent. Her face was a white sheet in the moonlight.

He sidestepped once more, reclaiming his position between her and the creature and swung at it again – but the beast was quicker this time. It reared and lashed out with its remaining foreleg, its partially severed mate flapping grotesquely as it moved. Sandor fell backward in the cold mud, the frozen hoof barely missing his temple.

'NO!' A voice behind him screamed, as a burning branch sailed through the air. It missed the creature by a good six feet and hissed as it landed in the snow. The dead horse seemed to take notice though and tossed its head in irritation, shying away from the spot where the branch lay guttering on the ground.

Sansa seized another pine bough and thrust it into the remains of the fire. The branch was old deadfall, and though the wood itself was wet its dry needles flared suddenly into a brilliant blaze. A moment later she'd leapt the fire pit and was at his side, brandishing the branch in the creature's face. The dead horse screamed and lurched backward on its remaining legs, but this time she did not miss. The burning needles caught the horse square in the side of the neck and its mane burst into flames. The creature's terrifying eyes rolled in its skull as it thrashed, tossing its head in an attempt to rid itself of the tangled mass of burning hair, but it succeeded only in fanning the flames. As it burned, the dead horse stumbled and fell, its front legs going down in a twisted tangle of flesh and bone.

Sandor was back on his feet in an instant, bringing his sword down on the back of the beast's neck. In two quick strokes he severed its head, but the body continued to struggle – hind legs flailing against the snow and sending up a shower of icy fragments as the flames crept across its shaggy back. The fleshy lips on the horse's decapitated head pulled back in a silent scream at his feet, teeth gnashing as it bit through its own swollen tongue. He continued to rain blows down on the thrashing corpse, slashing at the horse's spine, shoulders and hindquarters. Only when he'd removed the other three legs did most of the movement stop, though the torso continued to twitch.

He panted, standing over the ruined mass of flesh. Gore covered his legs and the front of his tunic, flecks of blood spattered across his face and down his neck. Only when he was sure the beast would not rise again did he turn his attention to Sansa, who was on her knees sobbing in front of the tent. The shelter slumped listlessly to one side, as she'd toppled two of the tent poles in her haste to exit. Breathless and shaking with adrenaline he fell to a crouch at her side and hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder. Her sobbing subsided a little, but he could feel her trembling through the leather of his glove.

The pair sat in silence for several long moments as their breathing slowed and the rotted corpse smoldered.

'Guess we know now why they burned them…' He croaked finally. Her breath hitched in her throat and came out as a strangled sob that might have been agreement.

'It was true.' She sputtered, voice thin as a reed. 'Dead things that walk in the night. It was all true.'

'Is this what you dreamt of – what you saw in your godswood?'

She leaned into him suddenly, burrowing under his arm. A smear of black blood transferred from his leather tunic to her cheek, but she took no notice and he made no move to push her away.

'No.' She said finally. 'I saw men and spiders.'


	11. Watchers on the Walls

NOTES: Phew! Sorry for the wait on this one. I've been caught up in vacation planning and haven't had time to write - at least I finished Dance! As stated earlier, this should be relatively free of Dance spoilers though- I'm pretty firmly planted in the AU at this point where Dance is concerned and it'll pretty much stay that way. Hopefully the next few chapters will be quicker!

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><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

Three weeks of snow. Three weeks of frigid wind. They'd stumbled into Castle Black as the first frozen claws of the storm crept in from the north, riding double on Sandor's shaggy palfrey. Her beautiful gray courser Lady had succeeded in chewing through her tether and snapping her half-frozen hobble strap the night the wight came down on them in the Gift, and they'd been unable to find her the next morning. Thankfully the palfrey was stronger than it looked and had managed to bear them both for the final day of their ride to the Wall.

Her welcome to the Wall had not been a terribly warm one. She'd embraced her brother, apologized to the Queen and done her best to convince Tyrion that she was not, in fact, stark raving mad. At least they didn't need much convincing about the horse. The wights had set upon them as well on the Shores of Long lake and they'd burned many, though there was debate on where they'd come from. Most seemed of the opinion that they were fallen defenders from the attack on Eastwatch, though nothing had yet been heard back from the patrols sent to Last Hearth and Karhold and ravens could not be sent out in the storm.

She'd been tucked away in a tiny room above the kitchens and largely forgotten. No one had any idea what sort of duties to assign to her, least of all Sansa herself. She knew she had to reach the Wall, but now that she was there she didn't have the slightest clue how to proceed. Daenarys sought to use her as an attaché and had given her the task of helping coordinate communications with the Stark bannermen serving Stannis. She'd found Lady Maege Mormont to be the most boisterous and welcoming of the bunch, but Sansa couldn't help feeling terribly out of place next to the warrior women of Bear Isle. Regardless, there was little and less to be done while the storm persisted, so her duties were few and far between.

Pleas to Jon for a way to occupy her time were answered with permission to access the Watch's ancient library. He'd assembled a small army of stewards and maesters to sort through the tumbledown stacks of crumbling manuscripts, looking for any information that might help them in the struggle against the threat beyond the Wall. The dour old men generally sneered at her presence and seemed loath to make use of her, but every morning she'd plant herself at a small table in the corner of the chilly storeroom, and make a concerted effort to scan through whatever books or scrolls the stewards set in front of her. The majority of the volumes were nothing but boring tomes detailing the daily life and expenditures of the Watch over the centuries, or the petty rivalries between this house and the other. Often she'd be yawning uncontrollably after little more than an hour.

And then there was the Red Woman.

The Lady Melisandre was in the company of the Queen and the Lord Commander on the eve of her arrival at the Wall – a fact Sansa found as unnerving as the woman's strange grace and unearthly red eyes. She hadn't dared to inquire as to why the priestess remained behind when her lord marched on. Roughly two thirds of the army's strength remained at Castle Black, Stannis having departed almost immediately for the Nightfort with a mixed force of his own men and those loyal to Daenarys. Reports indicated they'd only made it as far as Queensgate before the blizzard set in. All activity was at a standstill waiting for the storm to pass – an agony of waiting and shivering. Worse, the strange woman had taken an avid interest in Sansa from the moment of their arrival.

'_I have seen you in my fires, child. You cast a long shadow and winter flies in your wake. I have seen your valiant companion as well…'_ Something in the way the woman's eyes flared as she appraised Sandor had made Sansa's cheeks burn. She'd made every effort to avoid the strange priestess since, though that unfortunately meant avoiding her brother as well as the two were often together.

She'd been right about winter though – a massive white raven arrived that very night, just ahead of the snow. The white ravens of the Citadel bore no messages, but everyone knew what they heralded; a change of season. Autumn had come to an end, and what many said would be a long winter loomed ominously. This first storm was just a taste of what was likely to be many years of bitter cold, and worse.

Sansa crossed the courtyard as quickly as she could, a walking heap of furs and quilting wrapped in a thick hooded cloak pulled up to shield her face against the blowing snow. The snows covering the path were more than a foot deep despite constant shoveling, and the bite of the deep drifts through her leather boots and stockings was nearly as bad as the sheering bite of the wind through the rest of her layers. All the same, she was glad to be within the castle proper and not one of the countless soldiers huddling in the tents, wagons and makeshift wooden barracks halls that had been hastily constructed upon the army's arrival.

Sansa ducked through the archway leading to the castle's small sept and knocked her boots against the wall to dislodge the snow clinging to them as the guard pulled the door open to admit her. Since arriving at Castle Black she'd had two members of the Watch constantly following her, at the Lord Commander's insistence. The Wall was no place for a highborn lady, and if he couldn't be rid of her he'd at least see she was well protected. The Black Brothers set to the task were generally dour and quiet, but amiable enough the few times she drew them into conversation.

Whether or not they actually made her feel safe was another matter. She'd heard enough tales about the moral fiber of the average Night's Watchman to know she'd best tread carefully. She'd taken to wearing her sword belt any time she left her room, though it was more for show than anything else. She didn't dare think what she'd do if she actually had to draw the blade, but hoped the sight of it would be enough to make any potential attacker think twice. More than once the song of _Brave Danny Flint_ crept into her head as she walked the cold, damp halls, however – and that was enough to make her feel like a paper tiger, in spite of the sword at her hip. Women had no place at the Wall, pure and simple. History said those foolish enough to spend any significant time there were bound to pay for it sooner or later.

She saw little of Sandor Clegane since their arrival at the Wall, though she often had the suspicious feeling he was nearby. Any time she rounded a corner in the cramped and crowded hallways she half expected to run into him, but was always disappointed. Her world was an icy bubble of solitude. She woke, she ate, she read. From time to time she'd duck outside to stare at the gray sky until the icy wind made her eyes water and her lashes freeze, just to break up the monotony.

More than once she chided herself for being foolish, for not turning back to Winterfell as he'd asked her to, but then she would dream. The dream itself differed from night to night - sometimes she'd be back in Winterfell, or in her room at Castle Black; once she was even in her tower room at the Eyrie - but the ravens were always there, perched on the parapets, glaring down from the posts of her bed, flapping noisily in the rafters as a strange white mist swirled and eddied along the floor. There was something hungry and terrifying about that mist, and it scared her more than the birds.

'_Seems to me, ravens have the right of it,' _he'd said_._ For once she hoped Sandor Clegane was wrong.

The sept at Castle Black was shabby and unkempt, with simple carvings above each altar. Still, it had become one of her favorite places over the last few weeks, as it felt like the one place she could be around other people without having to worry about their intentions. The sept saw a steady trickle of men and even a handful of other women coming and going – members of the Watch, knights, soldiers and servants all called there often to pray for an end to the storm. A handful of candle stubs littered the altars. Most of them were offered to the Father, the Warrior, the Crone – pleas for protection, strength and guidance. Castle Black's drunken septon was occasionally in attendance, but not today, and Sansa nodded a curt dismissal to her guards as she took a seat on one of the cold stone benches. The two men moved off to strike up a conversation with a handful of their fellow brothers who lingered by the altar of the warrior.

Sansa loosened her outer layers and took off her hood as she studied the face in the niche ahead of her – the twisted guise of the Stranger was ominous and unknowable; a primitive beastlike countenance that seemed more animal than man. A sickly tallow candle glimmered on the altar below, casting quivering shadows on the stone wall.

'Anyone answering today, little bird?'

Sansa jumped in her seat as the familiar voice grated in her ear. The Hound had silently taken a seat behind her and now leaned forward, a dangerous smirk twisting the burned side of his face. She swallowed and gave him a reproachful look.

'I don't know. After three weeks I think they're probably sick of all the complaints.' Her expression softened slightly as she watched him. 'Where have you been? Why haven't I seen you?'

Sandor's eyebrow arched slightly before he nodded toward the doorway, where the guards lingered.

'Busy freezing my balls off, mostly – but I've been around. Imp's keeping me on a short leash. You have enough of your brother's Crows about to keep an eye on you.'

_No number of men could hope to replace Lady. Or you._ Sansa sighed, thinking of the number of times she'd crossed paths with her brother's direwolf Ghost in the yard. The huge white wolf was always friendly towards her, but she avoided him all the same – he was too strong a reminder of what her own stupidity had cost her.

'This waiting is unbearable, and I hate those crumbling books and stuffy stewards. It's really quite filthy in that old library, and the books are so _dull_. I wish there were some other way to pass the time.'

Sandor scoffed, the harsh noise resounding off the close walls and drawing more than a few curious and scornful looks from the assembled worshippers. He clamped a hand on her shoulder and leaned close to her ear. Sansa blushed at the feeling of his warm breath in her hair.

'Eager to see some blood, are you?'

'N-no… I just… This isn't what I expected. I thought…'

'You thought that since all your gallant little knights rode up here to face the foe, whatever great monsters are out there would simply present themselves for slaughter, hm? Bugger that. There's a reason no one sings or tells stories about the Others. Nobody wants to hear how the handsome hero got gutted with an icicle and turned into a rotting meat puppet. Which is a shame, because that might actually be entertaining...'

Sansa nearly choked on the giggle that rose unexpectedly in her throat and rested her hand over his, meeting his gaze with a grin.

'You are hopeless! Is it too much to believe things will go well for us here? Perhaps we'll give the singers something to compose about.'

Something she couldn't identify flickered in his cool gray eyes. The burned side of his mouth twitched, and a moment later his hand was gone. Sansa's smile melted as he stood and adjusted his sword belt, turning toward the door.

'Best get back to those books of yours, little bird. If there's anything down there that'll help us know what to expect when they come, somebody damn well better find it.'

She nodded stiffly, watching as he shouldered his way through the crowd by the door and back out into the cold. A flurry of snowflakes danced across the floor before settling into the brown muck that'd accumulated there in the coming and going of muddy snow-caked boots. Sansa turned back to the altar and slumped in her seat, looking glumly up at the Stranger. She sighed and fingered the stub of candle in her pocket. Supplies were precious and candles were certainly no exception, but this one was nearly spent and she figured nobody in the library would miss it. Rising she walked hesitantly to the Stranger's altar and lit the withered black wick from the single candle that burned there before setting the candle stub under the twisted face.

_Looks like no one has bothered to ask you yet – can you stop this storm?_ She frowned as she prayed awkwardly, resting her hands on either side of the candle. _While you're at it, please keep your birds out of my dreams. If you do, I promise I'll be nice to that raven Jon keeps as a pet. The talking one. It's always asking for corn._

It wasn't much of a prayer, she remarked as she stalked away sullenly, pulling her cloak back over her shoulders – but her conversation with the Hound had left her feeling less than eloquent. What had she been thinking touching him like that? Now he'd probably avoid her for another three weeks…

_No,_ she thought. _I'll track down Tyrion if I must – he'll know where the Hound is. Perhaps I can borrow him again as a shield, and rid myself of these._

Sansa's nose twitched with distaste as the pair of Night's Watchmen rejoined her at the door. His attitude may be foul, but at least the Hound washed once in a while – which was more than could be said for her current escort.

'Where to next, m'lady?' the taller of the two men asked reluctantly, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he glowered down at her.

'The maester's tower. I expect I shall be in the library for several hours.'

The guards exchanged sour looks. They hated the dark, chilly vaults beneath the tower nearly as much as she did.

'Very good, miss.'

Sansa stuck close to the wall as they crossed the yard once more, following the narrow path carved out by the builders and their shovels. The snow was several feet deep on either side, giving the impression of winding ones way through a narrow trench. It was a constant battle to keep the web of pathways clear and she passed several hunched men in faded black wool, hacking at the snow banks with spades and piling it into barrows. The entrance to the wormways was just inside the maester's tower. The pair of guards hefted the oak doors open and she started down the narrow spiral stair that led to the maze of tunnels beneath. The cramped stone passages reminded her of the crypt at Winterfell, and she pushed the memory away as she had every time she descended that stair.

The library began several chambers down the right passage, and a number of torches flickered in the wall sconces to light her way. Jon had a small army of stewards working at taming the massive collection day and night, and slowly but surely they were pulling order out of chaos and decay. Many of the older books were in such sorry states of neglect that they crumbled at the lightest touch and whatever knowledge they may have contained was lost to the centuries. Tables had been set up in the largest of the chambers, where those books solid enough to leaf through were arrayed for inspection by the few members of the team capable of reading. It was at one of these tables that Sansa settled herself, running a finger over the surface of the wood and wrinkling her nose with distaste at the thick layer of vellum dust that'd accumulated there. Even the air in the chamber was thick with the smell of musty decay kicked up in the wake of the workers.

No sooner had she settled than one of the stewards hefted a crate of books onto the table in front of her. His long face, graying hair and shabby black clothing made him look almost ghostly in the dim light and dusty air.

'There you go, m'lady. If you find our salvation in there be sure to give me some credit for the delivery, won't you? I've already ruined two crates of salvation this morning, but don't be telling the Lord Commander that.'

Sansa favored the steward with a thin smile and stood, peering into the box. A familiar variety of volumes were stacked haphazardly inside – most faced with leather, some in wood or thick canvas. The majority looked like ledgers, she realized with a sigh. Those were by far the worst. She lifted the first book and felt the cover crack under her hand as the brittle leather split vertically. She brushed the flakes off and set the tome on the table, opening it as carefully as she could. The pages were browned vellum and the ink was well-faded, but after skimming a few pages she concluded it was some sort of agricultural manual. She closed the book and set it aside – crop rotation theories for cultivating pease and corn were unlikely to help much in their current circumstances.

As she reached for the next book, the stack shifted slightly and a small, handsomely bound volume caught her eye. It didn't look nearly as old as most of the others, and the rich black leather was still smooth to the touch when she picked it up and turned it in her hands. The cover was unadorned except for a small escutcheon outlined in white on the lower right corner. A single dragon adorned the crest, rampant in white with a plume of red flames issuing from its open mouth. Sansa nibbled her lower lip as she ran a thumb over the unfamiliar device, and was about to open the book when a sudden thunder of feet in the hall and a series of shouts from another chamber made her jump.

'The horn!' One of the stewards yelled, grabbing his cloak and running for the stairs with several more men hot on his heels.

_Horn? What's happened? _A thrill of fright ran through her.

Sansa quickly stuffed the slim book in the pocket of her tunic and joined the scramble up the narrow staircase. The second blast sounded when she was nearly at the top, long and mournful in the cold air.

_Ahooooooooooooooooo…_


	12. A Thousand Eyes, and One

NOTES: Ahoy! Plot, tension and a bit-o-fluffiness. Also a bit of Dunk & Egg creeping in here, but nothing spoilerish and hopefully it won't be hard to follow even if you haven't read those yet. Enjoy!

As always, all belongs to the brilliant GRRM.

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><p><strong>SANDOR<strong>

The Queen's solar was crowded as Sandor settled into a spot on the back wall amongst a dozen knights and other retainers. The lords and advisors commanding the troops that remained at Castle Black were all in present council, arranged around a long table that the stewards had carried up from the mess hall.

'Wildlings,' Prince Quentyn grumbled, gesturing angrily over the maps spread across the wide table to where the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch sat opposite him. 'You said they'd be back, but how in seven hells did they move up on us in this weather?'

Jon Snow shrugged, his dark eyes gleaming a dull crimson in the light of the candles.

'I'm sure it wasn't easy, but they're a resilient people. This is their land – they know how to handle winter.'

'The question is, how are we going to handle them?' Lord Manderly popped a dried fig into his wide mouth, ample chins jiggling.

'Turn them away.' Lord Swann insisted. 'They threw their lot in with Mance Rayder and can now suffer the consequences. It's ludicrous that they should attack the Wall one moment and beg its protection the next. No – leave them be. Their fate is no concern of ours.'

Daenarys sat apart from the assembled lords on a small cushioned chair, flanked by three of her Queensguard – the forth having taken a chill. Ser Bayard looked bored, Selmy stiff and Mormont angry as usual. The Queen's brow furrowed in concern as her fingertips drummed against the ornately carved wooden armrest of her seat, beating out an erratic rhythm.

'These are not just fighting men, but women and children as well. I will not leave helpless people to freeze, starve and fall prey to our common enemy if there is some way they might be spared. Lord Snow – this Tormund who speaks for them, do you believe he can be trusted?'

'He's a little rough, Your Grace – but honorable enough, after a fashion. He is much respected amongst his people, and I believe he has the authority to speak for them.'

Snow cast a quick glance at the crimson-clad woman reclining next to him. She was the very portrait of comfort, despite the simple wooden seats. The priestess was silent but ever attentive, drinking in every word and mannerism of the men around her. Sandor watched her languidly stroke the large gleaming ruby at her neck, a ghost of a smile painted across her elegant features. His mouth twitched. The woman put him ill at ease, and he was not alone in his distaste. Most who had come north with the Queen wanted nothing to do with the strange priestess and her hungry red god, a fact that did not keep Melisandre from making herself welcome to all of the Queen's meetings as Lord Stannis's representative.

Daenarys sighed.

'Very well. I should like you to set up a meeting with him and present the following terms. We will grant them safe haven with the understanding that they maintain our peace, accept resettlement in the Gift and surrender any and all items they possess that are made from dragonglass. Any that are willing to fight with us under the leadership of our officers will be made most welcome.'

'Your Grace-' Greatjon Umber growled, pushing his chair back and resting two heavy hands on the table as he leaned forward, squaring his broad shoulders. 'These beasts have raided our lands and kidnapped our women for centuries – now you mean to settle them in our very backyard! The North will not stand for this…'

Daenarys stood slowly and walked toward the table, violet eyes sparkling dangerously as she stared him down.

'The North must, and will, set these old animosities aside. Look upon the faces of these people, my lord, and see your long lost brothers, sisters and cousins come home. They are our kin in purpose if not literally, and we will not turn them away in their time of need. All who seek sanctuary will receive it.'

The Greatjon sank back into his chair with an expression that could curdle milk, and Sandor watched as Sansa Stark waited a few moments for conversation to resume before laying a conciliatory hand on the big man's forearm. Lord Umber turned and whispered something in her ear that made her smile, but his scowl softened slightly and he nodded stiffly as she murmured a reply.

_Good girl,_ he thought with an odd spark of pride and turned his attention back to the lords as Tyrion used a dagger to gesture at several points on a large old map of the Wall's fortifications.

'-this sort of weather. If the same happens when the Others next press the Wall there's no way we'll be able to see them coming. As soon as this storm breaks we must redistribute our strength – Stonedoor and Long Barrow must be garrisoned, at a bare minimum, and reinforcements will be needed at both the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch.'

Jon shook his head.

'That would be a start, but it wouldn't be enough. Six fortresses manned out of nineteen still leaves far too many gaps. I'd like to see at least Sable Hall manned as well, but ideally we need to get every one of these strongholds occupied as quickly as possible. Yes, it spreads our forces a little thinly – but if any one point is pressed, they can easily be reinforced from the garrisons on either side.'

Lord Snow shifted uneasily in his seat and cast another quick side-long glance at the red priestess.

'The other question I would raise with Your Grace regards the use of your dragons… Is it your intention to keep all three together and in the vicinity of Castle Black, or would you consider posting them at intervals? Given that we're making every effort to evenly distribute what known weapons we have that should be effective against the Others – dragonglass and Valyrian steel blades – perhaps it would be prudent to consider…'

'Yes, Lord Commander – I am aware of your concerns. And I do share them, though the decision is not an easy one. Would that I could keep them all with me, but your Wall spans fifty leagues to either side of us and there is no way that my children can be used effectively if all are kept here. In addition, there's too much competition between the three of them for such a limited hunting range. Game is far too scarce for this area to support their collective appetites, and we haven't the supplies to feed them ourselves.'

Daenarys frowned, nodding to Tyrion and Prince Quentyn, who stood on either side of her at the head of the table with solemn expressions. Obviously it was not a subject they were keen to address either.

'I have discussed this matter with my lords of Lannister and Martell. For the sake of evenly distributing the dragons' effective ranges, I will take Drogon to Queensgate. Prince Quentyn will take Rhaegal to Stonedoor, and Lord Lannister shall be stationed at Long Barrow with Viserion. Drogon is still the largest and most accustomed to flying long distances, so remaining in the center of our line will allow me to react quickly should either flank be threatened. I will also be located conveniently close to both Castle Black and the Nightfort should Lord Snow or Lord Stannis have immediate need of me.'

The Queen hesitated, running a slender finger over the splotch on the map marked 'Queensgate'.

'I also agree that we should not hesitate in fully garrisoning as many of the remaining fortresses as your builders believe can promptly be returned to habitability. There is no telling how much time we will have between the breaking of this storm and the beginning of the next. I will see my men properly housed, whatever the cost – but it must be done quickly. Perhaps you will allow me to meet with your First Builder while you see to Tormund and his wildlings, and we can reconvene this council tomorrow. If the wildlings accept our terms, I would like to know how many are willing to fight with us so we can take this into consideration in distributing our strength. Let it be known that we will also welcome the assistance of any skilled craftsmen that may be among them. Once the other garrisons are established we will need the top of the Wall kept clear at all times – I want frequent patrols and the ability to relay messages via rider when the weather does not permit use of ravens. We cannot afford to be kept blind for lack of communication.'

Commander Snow nodded. 'As you say, Your Grace. I will see to it.'

'Blind,' rumbled Lord Swann, stroking his graying beard irritably. 'We couldn't be much more bloody blind than we are now. Three weeks with no news. For all we know, they've overrun Eastwatch again and are half-way through the gods-be-damned Riverlands by now. No number of garrisons would make a bit of bloody difference then.'

Lord Manderly chuckled, his great belly making the folds in his blue-green tunic ripple like a stormy sea.

'Best pray Lord Seaworth has the matter in hand, then. He may be little more than an up-jumped smuggler, but the man has a good head on his shoulders. He'll fight tooth and nail to hold the line, don't you doubt it. That one does not back down from duty.'

'Those who embrace the Lord of Light are never kept in darkness, my lords.' A silky voice purred suddenly, all eyes drawn to the woman in red. Melisandre's crimson lips smiled knowingly. 'You need not fear – I have seen in my fires that the Wall yet holds strong and true. The servants of the Great Other hide in their darkness. They know our Lord's fiery heart, the great Azor Ahai reborn, has returned to us.'

'Sounds like Stannis has everything under control here, and the rest of us can go home.' Ser Addam Marbrand quipped sharply from his place on the wall to Sandor's right and a round of hushed chuckles circled the room. Sandor smirked, but the priestess looked unfazed.

'Your sigil is apt, good Ser.' Melisandre said with a grin, crimson eyes flashing at the burning tree embroidered on his gray doublet. 'Our Lord's fire burns bright in you, as well. Such boldness will serve you well, should you learn to channel it properly.'

Tyrion cleared his throat as he set down his wine glass.

'Yes, well – while we're on the subject of fires, I'd also like to suggest that we look into setting up a system of beacon blazes along the top of the Wall once we have a few more outposts manned. For all of its other questionable uses, one cannot doubt the brightness of fire. Such a system would be the quickest way to pass word should any point on the Wall come under attack, regardless of the weather. With every fort manned, the beacons would be easily visible in even the worst of storms. Less forts... larger beacons. Either way, it should work.'

The dwarf tapped a thick hand on the table.

'In the meantime we shall have to hope that our ravens fly swift and true the moment this weather breaks. We will be needing word from the Mallisters as well – Ser Denys at the Shadow Tower and Lord Jason from Last Hearth, or Karhold, as the case may be.'

Daenarys nodded. 'Very apt - We'll discuss that more in depth tomorrow. My lords, if you should have any concerns you wish to bring to the council's attention please feel free to seek Prince Quentyn or Lord Tyrion out this evening. Otherwise, expect a summons tomorrow – hopefully Lord Snow will have good news for us concerning our visitors.'

The assembled lords and ladies stood respectfully as the Queen withdrew, flanked by Barristan Selmy and Jorah Mormont. Ser Bayard lingered at the stair to the Queen's quarters as the table was cleared and the council members filed out with their attendants. Sandor remained in his place against the wall as he watched Tyrion roll and tie two of the maps and tuck them under his arm before polishing off the last of the wine in his glass with a sigh of satisfaction.

'Civilization prevails, as long as the wine holds up.'

'That won't be long with you about.' Sandor sneered, eyes fixed on Sansa as she exchanged words with Lady Mormont and the diminutive Lord Reed. She looked distracted and ill at ease.

Tyrion belched triumphantly and shrugged.

'We all have our talents, dog. Like as I am to end up a tasty morsel for my dear friend Viserion, or an attractive smudge on the landscape when he flips me from his back at a thousand feet – I may as well enjoy the finer things in life while they are available to me. And speaking of the finer things… My dear Lady Stark! Have you been overcome with regret over our annulment? I should hardly fault you for missing my company and dashing good looks. Tell me, how may I ease your suffering?'

Sansa regarded him haughtily but brushed the remark off. She was close enough that Sandor could smell the flowery soap she'd used in her hair. His mouth twitched, but he kept his expression impassive.

'I need your help with something. A book I found in the library.'

She held out a small volume clad in black leather. Tyrion accepted it eagerly, his brow furrowing in curiosity. He ran a thumb over the crest on the cover before opening it to a random page, examining it a moment. His mismatched eyes widened a fraction and he promptly shut the book with a snap.

'Who else have you shown this to?'

Sansa frowned.

'No one – I only just found it this morning before the horns sounded. I stuck it in my pocket and quite forgot about it until I was dressing to come here. I didn't have a chance to look at it until just before the council meeting. It's all strange symbols and pictures, rather than proper words. Can you read it?'

He handed the book back to her and clutched her hand a moment as she accepted it, his voice low.

'We need to discuss this somewhere a little more discrete. Our surly friend will show you to my rooms. Wait there for me, I won't be long.'

Sandor bristled as Tyrion wheeled on him and hissed through his teeth.

'Straight there - do not let her out of your sight.'

_If only you knew, little man._ His mouth twitched.

Sansa gave him a strange look as Sandor planted a hand at the small of her back and propelled her toward the door. She muttered a quick dismissal to her Crow retainers and within moments they were crossing the yard toward Castle Black's main keep. The snow was still falling with a vengeance, intermingled with occasional bouts of hail that clattered off the tiled roofs and mercilessly pelted anyone unfortunate enough to be outside. They wound their way down the cleared paths as quickly as possible and Sandor felt a tug as Sansa took his arm, practically running to keep up on her shorter legs. He slowed a fraction and pulled the arm she clung to closer to his side, gritting his teeth as a particularly nasty hailstone ricochet off his opposite shoulder.

The halls of the keep were crowded, as always, and Sandor idly wondered how long it'd been since Castle Black saw such a high level of activity. He grunted irritably as a man-at-arms wearing the golden rose of House Tyrell blundered into him at a cross-hall, ignoring the man's hasty apology as he continued to bull through the jumble towing Sansa in his wake. When they reached the relatively quiet corridor that housed Tyrion's chambers he nodded to the pair of Lannister guards stationed there and shoved the door open, ushering her inside.

'Do you mean to go with him?' Sansa asked softly as the door clicked shut behind them.

Sandor felt something jump in his chest as he turned, but her back was to him. She lifted one of Tyrion's wine pitchers from a nearby table, peered inside, set it down and picked up another before pouring herself a glass with shaking hands.

'Long Barrow, you mean?' He frowned, watching as she drained the glass swiftly. 'I expect so.'

She made as if to refill her glass but he closed the gap and plucked the pitcher from her hand, setting it back down on the table with a heavy thump.

'Enough of that, little bird. Tell me what's going on. You're total shit at acting nonchalant.'

'I don't know.' She quavered, staring at the tabletop. 'I don't know what's wrong with me.'

He grabbed her chin with thick fingers and tilted it upward, forcing her to look him in the face as his eyes narrowed.

'That's the first obvious lie I've heard out of that pretty little mouth of yours since the capital.'

She was frozen, looking up at him with those damnably blue eyes of hers. Her lip quivered, and for a moment he was overcome with thoughts of that night in her room, before he left. She had the same strange, helpless quality to her now as she'd had then – he wanted to touch her, to possess her, now as much as ever. _None of that, you bloody bastard…_

'I don't want you to go.' Her voice was barely a whisper, so soft he was sure he must have imagined it.

His thumb traced along her jawline of its own accord until the door began to open with a creak and he snapped his hand away as if scalded. Sansa startled and knocked over the wine pitcher with her elbow, sending a splash of red liquid across the desk and down the leg of Sandor's trousers. Tyrion appeared a moment later, tossing several rolled maps and a sheaf of parchment onto the smaller table by the door.

'I hope that wasn't my Dornish red.' The dwarf mused dejectedly, eyeing the mess as Sansa righted the pitcher.

'I'm sorry, I… I'm afraid I didn't see it there.' Her cheeks flushed as she avoided Sandor's gaze, mopping at the mess with a loose cloth she grabbed off a nearby chair, only to realize that cloth was one of Tyrion's tunics. She purpled further, lips moving soundlessly as she examined the now hopelessly stained garment.

'Not to worry, Lady Stark.' Tyrion sighed, plucking the ruined shirt from her hand, balling it up and tossing it at Sandor; who caught it and used the wad of fabric to wipe down his pants, earning a further reproachful look from the dwarf. 'I'm used to having that effect on women, you see. Please, sit – I believe you have a rather interesting book to show me.'

'Y-yes.' Sansa pulled the small volume from her pocket and held it out to him with trembling fingers, before seating herself next to the desk.

'As you know, Jon asked me to help with going through the libraries. He hopes we can find something that might give us insight into how the Others were repelled previously.'

'Indeed. I've been down into the vaults a few times myself, though regrettably I do not have the time I would wish to devote to helping with that particular project. As I'm sure you have guessed, this particular book is quite a bit newer than most to be found down there – and yet, potentially far more valuable.'

Tyrion pushed a chair closer to hers and hopped into it as Sandor made do with a corner of the desk, crossing his arms as he leaned. He couldn't help but notice how keenly Sansa appeared to look at everything but him. Tyrion turned the cover of the book toward Sansa and tapped the crest engraved on the cover.

'Are you familiar with this device?'

'No, my lord. I know of no one who uses a dragon in their coat of arms besides House Targaryen.'

Tyrion smiled.

'And in that you would be correct, at least partially. I assume you have some knowledge of the Blackfyre Rebellion, and the significance of Aegon IV's "great bastards"? One in particular, to whom this sigil belongs, was Hand of the King - and later, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Brynden Rivers, more commonly known as Bloodraven.'

Sansa blinked and seemed to relax a little.

'Like the song?'

The dwarf smirked, mismatched eyes sparkling as he struck up a tune.

'_How many eyes has Lord Bloodraven?  
>A thousand eyes, and one<br>Seek and thou shall find no haven  
>All your plots undone.<em>

Yes, the very same. Much feared in his time, you see, and exceedingly clever – not unlike myself. Many suspect he was a sorcerer of some sort. What you have here, my dear, appears to be a journal of some kind.'

Tyrion opened the book carefully, running a short finger over the page of strange glyphs.

'The amusing thing is that it's written in High Valyrian. Obviously our dear Lord Rivers was loath to share his secrets with the scum that typically comprise the Watch. No doubt they found this in his chambers upon his death and it was simply tossed onto some random shelf by an ignorant steward. I wonder if it is the only such volume to be found in the library here, or if perhaps there are more...'

'Even if that is Bloodraven's, how is it any damn good to us… He died, what, fifty years ago? The Others haven't been seen for thousands of years. Bloodraven sure as hell never encountered them.' Sandor grumbled, shifting his weight against the desk. The wood creaked, and Sansa's cheeks colored again.

'True enough, but by all accounts he was a voracious study – there's no telling what he found in his years here.' Tyrion scratched the ruined stub of his nose as he leaned over the page, oblivious to their unusual behavior. 'Leave this with me, Lady Stark. It will take me some time to scour through it. I'll be sure to let you know if I find anything of use. Clegane can see you back to your rooms.'


	13. The Visitor

Notes: Greetings, folks - I'm not dead! Really! So sorry this has taken so long.. I've gotten caught up in a couple of other projects and as such this story got shelved for a bit. I have another chapter and a half written already but it needs to be edited before I can post it. Hopefully by the end of the holiday weekend, but we'll see; by this point I should know better than to make promises of that sort! *grin* As it is, this chapter's only had a rough-edit so hopefully it isn't too sloppy; I just figured it was time to post it already!

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><p><strong>SANSA<strong>

For the first time, Sansa mourned Alayne Stone. The bastard girl was nothing. She had no place in the world, no title, no expectations – she was free, beholden to no one. For all the entrapment she'd felt at the Eyrie, the persona of Alayne had its benefits. She could come and go as she pleased, without fear of prying eyes and whispers – one of many luxuries Sansa Stark could not enjoy. The Lady of Winterfell had obligations. She carried the weight of thousands of years of family history on her shoulders, and she bore that weight alone. At that particular moment, with her back pressed against the thick wooden door of her room, Sansa Stark would have given anything for just five minutes of being Alayne Stone again.

She held her breath, listening for any sound in the hall outside – the scuff of a boot, a hand on the door, a muffled word – anything that might indicate he was still there. Her heart pounded mercilessly in her chest, the only break in the silence that threatened to swallow her. She pressed her hands to the cold wood of the door, conscious of every rough variation and knot in the grain, every would-be splinter.

If he was still there, what did it matter? Alayne Stone might be able to open that door, but he'd never known and would never want Littlefinger's bastard daughter. It was Sansa Stark he'd stolen a song and a kiss from once, so long ago – and he'd been so drunk, he probably didn't even remember the night that had come to mean so much to her; a point of green light in the darkness that'd consumed her for so many years, a whispered promise of safety and perhaps something more.

Her finger trailed over the wrought iron door latch. No, he was surely gone – and soon he could well be gone forever. Through her tiny window she could see the haunting red flicker of the nightfire in the courtyard below. Few of R'hllor's followers remained at Castle Black to take part in the Red Woman's nightly prayers, but she still lit her huge fires every night in defiance of the wretched weather. Sansa willed herself away from the door and walked to her bed, sinking into the thick mattress as she watched the play of distant flames across the frosted windowpane.

The storm _would_ break sooner or later, and then their war would begin in earnest. The Wall would be manned in its entirety, forming more than a hundred leagues of battle-line from the Great Gorge to the west to the Bay of Seals in the east. Somewhere, in all that distance and uncertainty, she would have a duty to perform and men to lead – a prospect that had seemed much easier to grasp with the belief that the Hound would be nearby. With him, she was a bird; a special, otherworldly, untouchable thing. Without him, she was just Sansa; the would-be Wolf of Winterfell. Her father and brother had been the Wolf once, as countless more before them, leading great armies and winning grand victories. Wolves were not untouchable. Wolves fought, and wolves died.

A thoughtful steward had laid some food out on the table for her and set a fire to burning in the small hearth, but she had no appetite and the blaze did little to beat back the pervasive cold in the room. Sansa kicked her boots off and knelt by her chest, pulling the white cloak out of its hiding place for the first time since she'd worn it to see Stannis. While it was normally a source of comfort, the familiar feeling of the stained cloth under her fingertips filled her with despair as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

When the dreams came that night, Sansa became aware that she was in her room at Castle Black – but there was no mist, and no ravens; just an unusual sloshing sound and a warm weight by her feet. She slowly sat up in the bed, feeling strangely sluggish for a dream, and regarded the dark, hulking shape seated at the end of her bed with cool curiosity. It was much too big to be her wolf, Lady.

'Stranger?' She muttered sleepily. It seemed he'd answered her request to keep the birds out of her head at night, but she wouldn't have guessed that he'd replace them himself. Somehow she wasn't surprised. The Gods rarely gave their favors for free.

The dark shape chuckled bitterly and the container in its hand sloshed as he raised it to his mouth.

'Maybe so.'

Her nose crinkled. She could smell the wine on his breath. Had she ever smelled in a dream before? Undaunted, she pressed on.

'Thank you for making the ravens go away. I was so very tired of them. I've never dreamed of you before though, why are you here?' She eyed him in the darkness. It was odd that the room was so very black. Usually there was at least a candle burning.

'You're bigger than I thought you'd be. Almost as big as Sandor. Usually you look sort of small in the sept – but maybe it's just the lack of candles. Your altar is always so dark. Perhaps you prefer it that way?'

The name slipped from her dreaming lips with an ease it never could in her waking hours. It was as familiar to her in the darkness of night as the Hound and Clegane were in the light of day. The shape did not answer and Sansa scooted closer, pulling the ragged white cloth around her shoulders as the bed furs slipped down the front of her night shift and pooled around her waist. _It's cold in this dream_, she thought with a frown.

'I never really considered it before, but people don't treat you very fairly. They even left you out of the Song of the Seven. I couldn't sing for you anyway though. I don't sing anymore.' She yawned and curled her legs in front of her demurely. The figure raised the wine to his lips again, growled with disappointment and tossed the empty skin on the floor.

Sansa sighed and smoothed her tangled hair with one hand. Its texture felt strangely real in this exceptionally vivid dream.

'You sure aren't much for conversation... Somehow I thought you'd be clever and witty. Sandor had a horse named after you, you know? Honestly, I thought Stranger was a pretty terrible name for a horse - but maybe it was just right. Horses don't talk very much either.'

The figure laughed – harsh, grating, familiar – his words rough and slightly slurred. Sansa stiffened.

'And birds talk too bloody much. Go back to sleep.'

She felt her stomach do a flip-flop of excitement, pulse quickening, and pulled the cloak tighter to steady herself. Not a dream, then? No – far better, far worse. Sansa swallowed roughly, mouth suddenly dry. She watched as the Hound leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His face was turned toward her, but she couldn't make out his features in the darkness. She wondered how much of her he could see in the sliver of moonlight peering through the window.

'You didn't knock.' She mumbled through her fear and embarrassment.

'Nope. Would you have let me in if I had?'

Her mind trailed back to her inner struggle at the door earlier that evening and bit her lip.

'Yes.'

He snorted.

'Another fucking lie. You're full of them tonight, aren't you?'

Silence reined again as she searched for her voice.

'I didn't let you in, but you came in anyway. Why?'

His nearest hand slid from his knee to the bed and he leaned forward dangerously. Sansa stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, until his face was mere inches away from her own. She could smell the familiar tinge of wine on his breath and felt a wave of heat creep up her neck. _He's drunk. I haven't seen him drink wine since he came back. Why now?_

'You said something earlier, little bird. I want to know what the hell you meant.'

_He'll know if I lie. He'll know, and he'll leave_. She thought desperately as his free hand plucked at the loose hem of the cloak where it met the bedding. Maybe she was still dreaming after all? He was so close. It would be so easy. It would not be the first time she'd dreamt of the Hound in this way. _Not the Hound_, she scolded herself as she worked up her courage and leaned forward ever so slightly. _Sandor_.

She kissed him. Lightly, just the faintest press of her lips against his before pulling back to gauge his reaction. There was none – he didn't even seem to be breathing as she pushed away the hair that had fallen forward over the ruined side of his face, suddenly emboldened by his stillness. Her fingertips caressed the gnarled scar tissue at his temple and felt it contract as he blinked. The tangled flesh continued down the side of his face and she traced it slowly, past the rough hole where his ear should have been and over the pitted ruin of his jawline. She followed it to the corner of his mouth, the spot that twitched and twisted when he was irritated, and felt it spasm beneath her thumb. A hushed gasp barely made it out of her throat before his lips found hers, rough and desperate as his hand tangled in her hair. Her lips parted of their own accord and she tasted the sharp bitterness of the wine on his tongue.

It was everything and nothing like she remembered from their first kiss in her room so long ago, and more vivid in every way than any dream had ever been. Her hand slipped to the front of his neck and caressed the skin of his throat, feeling the strange growl of satisfaction that rose there before she heard it. She felt the cloak slip from her shoulders and tighten around her midsection, finding his free hand in the darkness with her own where it had seized the fabric. He tightened his grip and gave the cloak a sharp tug, sliding her across the mattress until her upper body was pressed against him, legs still lost in a tangle of bedding. His lips broke away from hers suddenly.

'Why?' He growled, sounding strangely angry.

Sansa tried to think over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, clinging desperately to the front of his tunic.

'Why what? What's wrong? Have I displeased you?'

Sandor's laugh was low and mirthless as he pulled away.

'You've learned from the best haven't you, little bird? This was a nice touch,' he said, yanking the cloak from her shoulders. Sansa squeaked in surprise and snatched at the fabric, but he pulled it out of her reach and wadded it contemptuously into a ball.

'I'm not going to play your damned games, Lady Stark. What does this thing mean to you?' He hissed, brandishing the cloak in her face.

'I found it on the floor in my room the night you went away, after the battle… it was all you left behind when you left me! So I kept it. I…' Her voice cracked. It was all going wrong.

'Fucking right, you stupid girl. I left you – I let them beat you bloody, and I left you to the lions. So why keep it? The gods-be-damned Kingsguard; your precious white knights… what a bloody joke. I thought they'd kill you after I left. If I wasn't such a bloody coward I would have done it myself. _Why did you keep it_?'

Sansa felt a tear roll down her cheek as she pulled the bed furs up to ward off the cold.

'It was all I had. I thought if I kept it safe, you'd come back for me... I should have gone with you.'

He truly laughed at that, and the harshness of it was like a slap in the face.

'You know what I would have done to you, little bird? What I could do to you now? I couldn't save you then, and I can't save you now. Shit, I couldn't save that little she-wolf sister of yours either. I can't even save myself. I'll fight any man alive, but 'alive' is a tricky word these days. We don't even know what the hell is coming for us. If you're lucky, maybe someone will burn your body before the Others get a chance to turn you into one of those things. _Hoping_ to be burned – isn't that a hell of a joke?'

He shifted his weight and ran his hands wearily over his face.

'Shouldn't have come here. Should never have brought you, damned fool of a dog… but you're here now, just like you wanted. Time to accept that decision and die with the rest of us, little bird. You're out of places to run.'

Sansa felt a tremble of anger run up her spine.

'I don't want to run, and I don't need you to save me – I have my brother, my betrothed and an entire army to keep me safe! I had to protect myself after you left, and I _have_ learned a thing or two while you were gone. I'll take care of myself, if need be. Brienne showed me how. If I've mistaken your intentions, _Ser_, please forgive me, but it's you that came to my room uninvited. You came to my room that night too, I never asked you in! You just came and took what you wanted – you forced me to sing and you forced me to kiss you.'

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to restrain her volume, lest someone in the hall overhear. Angry though she was, she didn't want him caught in her room. He remained motionless at the end of the bed with the cloak balled up in his lap, but it was impossible to make out his expression in the dark.

'You like trying to scare me, I know you do. But you never lied to me, and you never treated me badly. That's why I kept it, that's why it's important to me. It made me feel like there was still some good in this world, when I was friendless, surrounded by liars and everything was going so wrong. It made me feel safe. _You_ make me feel safe. Tonight I _wanted_ to kiss you, and now you're being terrible again!'

Silence settled over the dark room once more, broken only by the sound of breathing.

'Safe,' he grunted finally, chuckling darkly as he rose from the bed with a faint wobble. '_Safe_, she says. Seven-bloody-Hells. You'll never be safe, little bird. Not really. You have no need of me and _no idea _what you bloody-well want.'

The hearth erupted with a shower of embers as the bundled cloak landed in the coals and burst into flame, shattering the darkness in the room with a sudden explosion of orange light. A raw, choking sob worked its way out of Sansa's throat as she scrambled across the bed toward the fire, but she knew it was hopeless. The hungry flames consumed the dry fabric so quickly that she barely had time to register the tortured expression on his face before the light smoldered out, the wood coals crackling as the black woolen soot settled over them.

'I'm nobody's hero, little bird. Time to stop dreaming.'

Her eyes never left the flames dying in the hearth, though she heard his heavy steps cross the room and the soft thump of the door closing behind him. Long after they guttered out her focus remained on the tiny points of light glimmering through the ashes, as the tears cooled on her cheeks.

_He's wrong_, she thought, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of a shaking hand._ They've come before, and they were beaten. We'll beat them again. I saw them burn – the wolf won. He's wrong about the Others, and he's wrong about me as well._ She boggled a little at how quickly she'd come to accept her connection to him, after fighting it for so long – the door that had opened a crack that night in her room so long ago had just been blown off its hinges. It could not be closed again. His absence left a void in her room, and a chill that went beyond the cooling hearth that had just consumed the last tenuous link to her meek, dependent childhood.

That did not mean, however, that she'd be quick to forgive him for being so calloused. What sort of man visited a lady's room in the night, kissed her as he had and then left in anger? His moods were more than she could fathom, but that wouldn't stop her from trying. If he wanted to play games, then she'd play – and play to win.

Sansa laid back on the bed and shut her eyes, considering the possibilities. First she'd have to make sure he stayed nearby, and that would require cooperation from Tyrion. Then there was the matter of dealing with her own banners' jealousy when they found out she'd requested a westerman as her sworn shield over one of their many offered sons and daughters – she'd avoided the matter so far by making use of the men of the Watch, but if Daenarys chose to send her and her northmen to another of the Wall's unmanned holdfasts then there could be no question that she'd need new protection. There had to be a way to keep him close while maintaining balance, but what?

Then there was the problem of what her betrothed would think of the arrangement, should it be possible. Doubtless Lord Mallister would be unhappy enough to learn she'd come to the Wall in the first place after imposing on him for men to reclaim Winterfell, but she could tolerate his unhappiness. Perhaps if she spurned him enough he'd break their engagement? No, she could not afford to risk his displeasure. She needed the riverlanders to hold Winterfell. Besides, it was a selfish and cruel thought after all he'd done for her, and she pushed away a sour thought of what Septa Mordane or her parents might say about such behavior from a highborn lady. Under normal circumstances it may have been possible. The innocent were always the first casualties when such games were played - she knew that better than anyone. It wouldn't be the first time a promise for her hand was broken. She'd been promised to Joffrey, after all – then promised and wed to his uncle, but even their ceremony under the eyes of the Seven hadn't bound her in the end – promised again to Harry Hardyng, for all the good it'd done him. She could still see the confusion in his dying eyes as he lay in a pool of bloodied snow near the Gates of the Moon and wondered if anyone had bothered to bury him. Oaths and promises were just empty words. Words were wind, and the wind was nothing if not ruthless in winter. But winter was not the time for carelessness.

Images of the game's many players juggled through her mind like brightly colored jester's balls - an intricate dance of political and emotional choreography that made her head spin.

Littlefinger's deceptively silky voice ran through her head as Sansa pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped the bed furs more tightly around herself. _Men are simple creatures, Alayne. Keep them off balance and you can guide them any way you like. A simple prospect for a woman of your charms, my lovely daughter – a promising glance, a faint smile, a gentle touch are all it takes to bait the line. Disinterest and cool manners will set the hook, and thereafter you need only hold and wait for the fight to go out of him. Above all things, men desire that which they cannot have, sweetling. _She could even see the oily smile that had accompanied his words, feel the way his eyes roved over her body as he spoke. Sansa suppressed a shudder of revulsion and banished the image from her mind before drifting off to a fitful sleep.

When next she awoke, bright morning sunlight was spilling into her room through the frosted window. Sansa yawned and stretched before reluctantly leaving the warmth of her bed to peer out into the courtyard. She rubbed the sleeve of her nightshift against the foggy glass, revealing a cold sun rising in a startlingly clear blue sky. It was beautiful to behold after so many long days of gloom and swirling snow, and Sansa smiled briefly. The storm had broken. Ravens would be flying even now, and the army would soon be on the move. Sansa Stark was going to war, in more ways than one.


End file.
